Nick pulled up to 141 Hackles St. He dropped his kickstand, leaned into it, and got off his bike. He looked at the house — he was nervous. What was he going to say to her? Would she even attend? The house was three stories tall, gray, and old. Rotating colors pressed against the inside of the first-floor windows. Nick could feel the music everywhere but not in his ears.
Stepping around his bike, Nick went up the walkway to the front door. The last time he was here, it was with friends. They were all looking for a thrill; they found several. He found one — with her. He had delicate scars to help him remember.
Nick rang the doorbell. There was no immediate response. Did he expect any? He turned around and looked back down the path. His bike was the only vehicle on the street. He knew when the door opened because the music rushed at him.
A teenage boy, bathed in random colors, was standing in the doorway. Nick smiled, made to speak, then realized the boy wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music. He showed the youth a picture from his wallet. It was of an old woman on a porch rocker. The boy turned around, waving over his shoulder for Nick to follow.
Nick followed the boy through the main room. Several other partygoers were milling about and holding inaudible conversations. At the end of a hallway, the boy led Nick to a staircase. He pointed up the stairs and walked back out to the main room, leaving Nick alone.
Abandoned and with no other direction, Nick climbed the stairs. The music faded as he ascended. On the top floor, he found another hallway. Along one wall were three closed doors with an open one at the end.
Nick passed through the open doorway and into a dark room. As his eyes adjusted, a silhouette materialized against the far window. He recognized her. He didn’t know her name, but he knew her. He walked over to the young woman and sat down next to her. She looked over at him, then returned her gaze to the window.
“I …,” began Nick.
Without looking, she touched his lips. It burned, but it was loving.
