WRITINGS ON THE WALL

---

The first false haze of summer arrived. Styles' past week had unraveled in a series of minor catastrophes. Each one a notch on the calendar. He’d been looking for an exit. A place to leave the mounting disappointments behind to no avail. One Friday, late afternoon a travel show caught his eye — “Retreat Under Blooming Canopies”. On screen, jubilant couples glowed under pink-tinged petals at sunset. In the dim lit living room, their saccharine joy hung suspended until Liam’s name illuminated his cellphone. Styles answered.

"Sup," Liam said, lively. "I'm down at Onyx. Come join me for a drink." 

Styles stared at the shadows clawing up his drywall. "Thanks, man, but not tonight. I'm just really not up for it." 

A sympathetic sigh rattled the line. "Come on, Styles. You've been marinating on that couch for weeks. It's not good for you to just sit there in the dark. Put on a shirt. I'm not letting you flake tonight."

The phone went dead. He stared at the dark glass, trapped by the sheer friction of a refusal. The thought of a flat denial brought a wave of exhaustion, since remaining frozen on the couch required far more stamina than just giving in.

Past the boundary of the residential blocks, Styles arrived beneath the lounge's black iron archway just as the cab’s tires quit. A heavy rhythm followed him inside where brass chandeliers stained onyx tables burgundy. That deep light carried over to the mirrored wall, where rows of amber, green, and clear bottles floated in the dark glass. Styles cut through the reflection, his stride parting the crowd until the space opened a direct line of sight to Liam. 

“Hey, man. I'm really glad you actually came. So, what's been eating you?” Liam asked, swirling a rocks glass. 

"You know, the usual. Work." Styles answered, after he swallowed the liquor cold.
 

"Bullshit.” Liam leaned closer, "Don't give me the corporate cover story. You’ve got that exact look from last winter. Talk to me, what's going on?" 

Styles finished the liquor. “I'm just tired. Honestly.” 

"If you say so." Liam looked past Styles' shoulder, tracking a woman in a sage-green-blazer as she navigated the front door. He watched her clear the entry, then pivoted back, "Hey, look, give me two minutes? I see someone I've been trying to get a hold of for weeks. Stay right here, alright? We are definitely finishing this conversation." He vanished into the crowd. 

Styles raised two fingers to the bartender. Two shots of tequila dropped onto the wood. He bolted the first, heat spreading through his chest, then slammed the second down raw. The alcohol scorched his throat, clamping his eyes shut. When he forced them open, the street outside materialized around the Goldcrest Casino sign. Within its emerald border, a stark yellow fill housed a needle-thin red trace. The light looped in time.

“What if?” He mused. A fortune sat unlocked across the asphalt, timed to a predictable loop of green, yellow, red.

Near the back wall, Liam was still engaged in conversation.  

Clearing the crowd, Styles tagged his shoulder on the way past “Ay Liam. I'm quickly going to step out for air. I'll be back in fifteen."
 

From the Casino’s entrance overhead, a celestial dome rose. Gold-leaf pinpricks traced constellations across the frescoed ceiling, stretching above a row of sophisticated restaurants. Deep in, the widening path revealed the main gaming floor, where towering beige-stone pillars framed the expanse. Around him, slot rows erupted in a chaotic chorus of bells and digital jingles that echoed off the gold-grouted geometric marble floor. Styles maintained his pace, entering the dark-framed rotating doors at the rear of the hall.

Inside, the noise receded. Farther in, poker players hunched at tables, their silence broken only by the rapid riffle of cards. Nearby, a roulette wheel spun in a blur of red, black, surrounded by a tight, watchful crowd. Styles paused as chips rode a single turn of the wheel. He debated joining the numbered grid for a bit. It moved way too fast, he thought. A cold streak here would wipe out his cash before the hour ended. It’s too risky. Turning away, his eyes found the stillness of an open blackjack table. 

He shunted his tattered bills across the felt. "Chips, please." 

The dealer’s neutral expression remained fixed. With a honed thumb-flick, he counted and delivered a tower of chips. Styles claimed the stack. A single blue disc anchored on the felt. Two cards skittered across the cloth—a seven, an eight. The dealer took his own pair, exposing the first, a face card. Styles nodded—hit. The next card was a seven. 

"Bust," the dealer swept the chips.

A heavy breath escaped Styles. He risked an identical token, staying the course. The cards skittered out, giving Styles a twenty-one. His grip relaxed. Across the felt, the dealer had a ten faced up. Silently, the dealer flicked the down card over to expose an ace. Twenty-one 

“Push.”

The dealer’s hands moved in a swift blur, resetting the table. His phone pinged. The upcoming hand slipped behind the display. It was Liam asking: Where’d you go???

Two new cards slid home. Styles stood on a five; the dealer showed a four. Distracted, he tapped the felt for a hit. A three landed, bringing him to eight. Eyes down, his thumbs moved over the screen, typing b... r...

"Hit or stand, sir?"

“Hit.” He said under the dealer's gaze, sending the text.

Meanwhile, a vibrant melody filled Onyx. Liam sat opposite Mira, his phone flat on the dark wood as he waited for Styles' response. The screen buzzed. He glanced down, fired back a quick response, and gave her his full attention. There, the heavy pull of their history took hold, their conversation moved fluidly. Words came easy at first. Their banter, unforced while they coasted on shared memories. But as time moved on, questions hung. His focus slipped. Answers fell short, flat, abandoned.
 

“What has you so stressed?” She asked.

"It's my friend, Styles. I don’t know where he is." Liam replied, eyes scanning the crowd. "I was just about to introduce you to him, before he left"

Away from Onyx’s buzz, the room congealed around Styles. “How about this?” he thought, shoving his entire remaining pyramid forward. Heat mounted in his throat. Reason buckled.

The dealer’s expression stayed blank. Cards sliced across the cloth. A Queen faced skyward. Styles checked his pair. A King, an Ace, twenty-one. The dealer exposed a hidden six, then drew a Jack to bust the sixteen. His chips doubled again, followed by a rush that bypassed his urge to walk away. Now, spreading his bets across the felt. Black and yellow tokens accumulated in high denominations. 

Each win brought whispers. Some joined the felt, while others back-bet from the fringes. Motivation muted as his chips piled higher. He was no longer playing to win. He was playing to disappear.

As another shoe emptied came a broad-shouldered suit to the felt. Coldly, he appraised the table while the dealer replaced the spent cards. Through the silences spun the fresh decks until a hard vibration struck Styles’ thigh. From his lap his screen flashed crowded with texts from Liam:

Where the hell are you? 

Dude, did you just bail? 

Where you at?

?

Styles typed a response: My bad, I'm at the Goldcrest. I’ll be there in a few. A calm clarity overcame the distraction. He knew this would be his final appearance, regardless of the outcome, as the constraint of time now dictated his movements. The dealer stood ready. His hands advanced the chips forward. The main tower split clean, sending the largest portion directly on the designated spot. The rest of the checks claimed the pots of the empty seats.

Down came a Queen, a King—twenty, versus an Ace. Next to it, his other two positions took their initial cards to complete his multi-hand bet. The urge to split that first pair flashed through his chest, but that option required a second stake he didn't have. Tension returned. Stand, he waved on the main hand. Action moved to his second position, where a second hit went over twenty-one. Bust. He pivoted to his final spot, taking two quick draws to settle on nineteen. The crowd shifted as the dealer’s gaze remained vacant, his thumb peeled back his hidden card, a two. Hit. Three. Hit. Five. “Twenty-one”, He said. 

A hollow numbness spread from his chest outward. Then one swift motion swept felt bare. Seconds stretched out. The surrounding noise went flat, leaving him stranded in a distant, underwater hum.

Outside, lungs full of hot, stabilizing smoke, Liam tracked the empty dark from the shelter of the overhang. His mind drifted between Styles and Mira, weighing the delay against the ticking clock. Impatience won out. As a final breath of smoke vanished, the entrance doors slid open.

Out of the gloom, Styles emerged.

“Dude, there you are,” Liam said, his expression a mix of concern and relief. “You had me worried for nearly two hours, man. I mean a text only takes like a few seconds.” 

Drained of all inflection, Styles avoided his gaze. “I’m truly sorry man. I was on a good run. It's over now. I was actually on my way back to you.”

A turn toward the street broke the waiting stance. "Right. Cool. Let’s go. I want to introduce you to Mira. Her friend will be here soon."

A slow shake of the head met the invitation. "Nah, I’m home bound.”
 

Liam studied him. “What? Come on. What's up? You haven't been yourself lately."

No words came back. Steeling in a heavy, unspoken refusal, the silence anchored both men to the spot. Then a sudden chime tore through the dark. Mira’s name lit up the phone in his palm.

"Answer it." Styles said, retreating toward the street's pallid light. "Promise, I'll make it up to you next time."

A long breath escaped Liam, dragging the stiffness from his shoulders as he conceded the pavement. A black door slammed shut across the asphalt. 

Seconds after, the emerald sign shrank to a taunting speck in the cabs' rearview mirror, followed by a cruel montage of possibilities he'd just gambled away. Seeking a distraction, Styles isolated himself in his earphones and scrolled through his digital feed. Until a new series of posts from Liam, shared just 10 minutes ago popped up. 

On the screen, twin champagne flutes led the feed, gold liquid glinting beneath a single tag labelled "Cheers." Next came a private exchange where humor danced between Liam and Mira. A faint twist touched the corner of his mouth at the sight of his friend. He knew the signs of Liam getting like that, entirely content. Styles thumbed past, paused, then swiped back. Recognition hit. He recalled Mira from his brief encounter earlier that evening. Their easy warmth confirmed it. His departure was justified. Then another swipe down revealed a trio at the bar—Liam, Mira, and a second woman, likely the expected friend. Followed by a selfie portrait of Liam smiling under the lounge's soft lights. Lastly a video, titled "Good times," of the three squeezed tight on a velvet bench.

Brakes groaned, withdrawing the screen’s glare on arrival. 

In the coming days he buried himself in a desolate routine where certain nights bred erratic thoughts. 

One evening his relentless pursuit petered out, sending him into blank slumber. In it, he dreamt a life of golden sunbeams, effortless fun and comfort among good company. Soon the joy crashed under the shrill alarm, leaving a rancid echo. 

Blurry-eyed, he splashed his face using water from a forgotten wash. The shock broke the reverie.

In the pale light of the bathroom, his own eyes stared back, till one brutal question landed: "Is this all there is?"

His reflection gave no answer. Instead, a voice deep within him rose up to shield his daily life.

For the first time in weeks, Styles found himself meandering the neighborhood under a starry sky. His voice gave way the sparse chirp of crickets from the damp, mineral earth scent.

Below, a handful of petals swept around his feet in slow, whimsical arcs. Then came the park, where lamplight bathed uneven stones under writhing oak shadows along four paths converging at the heart.

Caught by a fresh floral breath, Styles went farther toward the center. Passed a bench that offered refuge beside beds of interwoven tulips, daffodils, hyacinths.

A second fragrance pulled him toward a cluster of purple spring blooms. Memory shifted, exposing a childhood garden and a single word: irises. Soft blue and pale pink petals drifted across the stones, clearing a line for his eyes to follow.

The line ended at a low circular wall of pale, weathered stone enclosing thick roots. Above it, lit under moonlight, dark green foliage wove through spring blooms sculpted whole. The cylindrical structure stood tall before him, its surface stippled in bursts of color. Unsure of the blossoms’ names, he turned to a web image search on his phone.
 

Arching stems appeared on screen, each bearing pendulous, heart-shaped petals split by a droplet of pink and white—bleeding hearts, the caption read, a form associated with grief endured and loyalty unbroken. Star-like blue faces—forget-me-nots—shared the screen, pushing small petals through a living lattice, resilient, defiant. Together, the botanical labels unearthed the memory of the man he once was. The flowers became fragments of a tenderness he assumed lost.

Cold water cut through his thoughts as the sprinklers burst alive. He recoiled, a chuckle catching in his throat as the spray splashed up his jaw to his wrists. “Whoa,” he gasped. Then the screen changed, vibrating from an incoming alert. The glass glowed, illuminating a bank notification. His thumb hovered, reluctant to sever the fragile tether to himself.

The balance flared at him, igniting a sudden heat in his chest. But as the clock ticked, the thought of returning to his old routine suffocated him. Something clicked. Pressure receded, replaced by a bright certainty. The initial sum was more than enough for a refreshing breakaway.

Dawn had just thinned the dark when he left his apartment. Flight paths crossed his mind, a swift calculation that favored an obscure carrier to the gate at the northern terminal. By the time the airport came in view, morning had fully arrived. Inside the terminal moved at its restrained pace of rigid queues. Suddenly the idea of being carried straight to a destination felt wrong. Instead, the choice fell to a rental car and a one-way route toward a sister branch tucked far beyond city lines.

Hours later, rolling fields edged the asphalt. Commercial signs disappeared, replaced by stone fences, thick hedgerows amid low hills. The lanes narrowed to a single strip of tarmac caught in fine rain.

At the town limits, the clouds broke. The sudden sun left the streets mostly dry but slick in occasional patches. Puddles sheened in shallow ruts, mirrors for the pale light. Beyond the last houses, wheat fields moved in a languid undulation. Life here possessed a different, calmer rhythm.
 

The tyres came to a halt outside the sister branch.  Past the glass door, a long slab of Black Pearl partitioned the room from the back wall. Behind the counter, a clerk logged the drop‑off.

"Do you know of any accommodations nearby?" Styles asked.

“Uhm, yeah. There's a lodge on the main road. Then farther north in town, you’ve got the B&B above the café near the bus stop, or another one right near the plaza. It is well-kept, peaceful yet alive.” He replied, leaning on the counter.

“Thanks. How about get around though?” Styles added.

“Hmm, well there are buses that run twice daily, but minibuses move at random. As for cabs, they are mostly situated at the airport. Look, if you’re planning on traveling a lot, keep the car. It will save a lot time.” He pushed his business card toward Styles. “I’ll be here if you change your mind.” 

"Cool, thanks". He answered.

Mist rose from hot exhaust vents along the dry sidewalk. A ghost white chassis blocked the curb. Out of the cab rushed a young couple, backpacks gripped tight in their hands.

“Hi. Excuse me. Are you free right now?” Styles asked.

The driver unrolled the window. "Hello, where are you heading?”

Styles hoisted his phone displaying the address near the market. The man squinted at the text, then popped the locks. “Sure. Get in.” 

"The clerk inside said cabs are non-existent out here. Is that true?”

The driver grinned, one hand on the wheel, “Kind of. You can get a cab if you request one. Otherwise, people here usually walk or make use of public transportation. It keeps the roads less crowded. Less honking, more arguing over who sits where,” he added chuckling.

“Oh, good to know.” Said Styles, nodding.

The driver smirked. “Aside from that, the town is easy to navigate. You can’t really get lost here. The main road runs straight through, though it draws heavy crowds near the plaza. But once you break away from that central strip, the park offers some space, just a short walk from your stay.”

Beyond the glass, empty fields flashed past in a blur.
 

The driver resumed, "If you want to see our museum or the east hill viewpoint, that’s a short drive. I can take you there if you like” Two fingers extended a card towards Styles. “Here, feel free to call me anytime.” 

At the B&B, the car idle dropped. Capped by a pitch-black sky, the three-story building caught only faint illumination from the streetlamps. Along the rain-darkened pavement, fractured lines of light tracked the lower edge of the façade.

After bidding the driver farewell, Styles walked through the front doors. Inside, intricate loom tapestries lined the whitewashed walls until the line broke at a cedar desk, where a host stood up.

“Evening," Styles said. "Do you have a room for one?”

The attendant checked the ledger. “Hmm, yeah. We've got space. How long will you be staying us?”

“Two nights.”

“Alright.” With a quick pen stroke across the page, the attendant tapped the wood.” I can place you in room 306 on the third floor,” 

Up the narrow stairs, warmth from the parlor receded, replaced on the second level by a sudden draft from the kitchen. Past that brief hum of activity, the stairwell extended onto the top floor. Through the unlatched terrace doors in his quarters, he met the breeze. A few minutes after, grilled fish tacos and cold beers served as his late meal. Over the empty dishes, crickets claimed the air. The bed, him next, fully unguarded. 

He woke to the sun flat against the balcony doors. One arm stretched over his eyes as sweat gathered along his collarbone tracked downward. Finally, Styles eased the shutters halfway to block the light and slid back to sleep.

A dream marooned him at a riverbank at dusk where glass-clear water bared pale, bonelike stones. Beneath the surface, a strong undercurrent gripped his ankles as he waded toward the far bank. There, a town loomed. From the water's edge, a gravel track cut past the perimeter. In the lock of the nearest house, a key waited. Styles twisted it. The door yielded.
 

Inside, the open layout left only a round table beside a window. Styles moved to the glass. Knuckles rapped the thick surface. No sound followed the impact. Outside, the river breached its banks. Through the heavy, distorted pane, the landscape blurred to nothing. Against the glass, the weak dusk light flattened. Within a single second, water slammed the glass.

Instinct spun him around to face the exit. In a single stride, he threw his full weight onto the main door. It stayed rigid under external pressure. Before his hand could strike the mechanism, twin torrents burst from the kitchen archway and bathroom threshold. Beneath his feet, the wood shattered as a geyser-burst threw him off balance.
 

The combined currents flooded the house faster than he could track. Driven by the surge, he swung back toward the glass. He pushed, shoved, pulled. The window held fast, fixed to the frame like stone. 

In the adjacent rooms, a bookshelf teetered, a desk tipped, a bed rose under soaked sheets, side tables lurched. A rapid search led him from window to window, yet every pane resisted. The ceiling drew closer, compressing the remaining pocket of air. Head tilted back, he drew a short gulp before the water met the plaster. The wood groaned as he pulled his body toward the main entrance.

Exerting the absolute limit of his strength, he wrenched the handle. Seconds after, an involuntary reflex flung his mouth open. Water gushed in, filling his throat. He convulsed, swallowed, and choked.

Awake, he jolted, hands clenched in the sheet, breath caught halfway. Above the ceiling remained fixed. To his sides the walls held their lines. As for the floor, it was dry. 

Outside, the late summer sun slipped from view Voices filled the street. He continued to look for a seam as the dream turned over in his mind. Under scrutiny, it offered none.
 

From there, heat gathered in the shower along his back beneath the warm spray. At the release of muscle tension, his thoughts folded in the steam.
 

Dressed, he immersed himself in the plaza. For a minute, he stood still, eyes on the road.

Roasted spice drifted across the square stone tiles. Its detailed pattern ran straight to the board-formed concrete wall of the first restaurant. Next door, two waitrons kept watch. A third stood out on the common area, phone pressed tight to his ear. 

Past the waitron’s murmurs, the path led beneath timber rafters. Overhead, gnarled vines packed the ceiling, crowded by suspended lit silk lanterns. Upon the terracotta brickwork, their vivid brilliance cast a fractured lace of leaf-shadows.

At the dim edge of the plaza, music threaded. Styles followed the sound to a restaurant wider than the rest. By the entrance, an A-frame sign displayed OPEN MIC NIGHT in fresh chalk. 

He angled past the first exterior tables, through the propped doors. Along the left wall a bar counter ran beside him. Low cabinets held a tight, flat-stacked layers of bottles. On the upper shelves, glass rails lined up in an assorted array of liquor. Suspended lamps on fixed cords sent a downward spill across honey-colored wood and forest-green paint. The glow caught the back wall, where the mirrored grout joints of the charcoal-stained diamonds formed a bright web.

To his right, loose tables packed the floor. Beyond them, occupied booths ran the length of the wall. Ahead, the floor channeled a single-step platform. At the center mic, a young woman hummed over the chords of an acoustic guitar, backed by the shadowed gear. The melody absorbed the ambient chatter, traveling back across the floor like a neat measure over oak.

Beneath the sound, Styles claimed a midway stool. Farther down, a bartender clearing the line stopped short at Styles. “Evening,” He said. “One Negroni, please. Two parts gin, one part Campari and sweet vermouth over crushed ice.”
 

Clear liquor met red in the glass. Styles let his gaze drift over the room. The bartender mounded crushed ice to the rim, packed it tight, and set the crimson blend on the counter.
 

Halfway down his drink, a cold, bittersweet sting settled on the tongue. A cluster of suits at the rail finally broke apart, migrating toward a low table in the back. Their departure abruptly revealed a figure of effortless grace, framed by the falling light of the pendant lamps. Relaxed at the shoulders, she sat as the sleek, wet edge of her dark brown hair defined the fine contours around her face. Behind the counter, a pair of glasses rang out from the rack as the bartender gestured toward her glass. Her partial head shake drew her profile in the illumination, where her rare, captivating softness emerged.

Striking a sudden chord across the space, the bartender’s raised eyebrow questioned if Styles was fine. Sensing his eyes, Styles immediately flashed a dismissive thumbs-up. Turning back to find her eyes watching him, her gaze snared him in mesmerizing spell. Caught in a wordless lock a static charge bound them until a slight shift left the space beside her clear. Styles crossed the gap.

“Hi,” He said, “Are you from around here?”

An eyebrow tilted just enough to be curious. “I am. Why you asking?”
 

“I'm passing through,” He replied, letting his eyes linger on the subtle way she circled the glass' rim. 

“Though I get the feeling this place has a way of making people stay.” She said, eyes skimming the stage. 

"Yeah, sure. People always find excuses to stay," A faint smile curved her lips as she swirled her glass a little. 

Styles let the pause stretch between them. 

"I wonder what they'll be tonight", he said, his mouth turned up in a half-smile.

Her lifted gaze met his. “That depends on you. Some things don't just surface for everyone.” she said teasing. 

“Fair enough, I guess the evening will decide.”

From there, their conversation flowed naturally. Over a freshly delivered second round, idle banter deepened into shared stories and furtive glances that pushed past ordinary bounds.

Amidst their carefree laughter of a shared joke, they finally exchanged names. “I'm Styles,” he said. Nerissa gave hers in return.

Weaving between tables, boots tapping the wood floor, a young man signaled the bartender. On stage, his fingers brushed the microphone stand, eyes sweeping the room before speaking. “Good evening, everyone. I hope everyone is having a good time,” he said, adjusting the mic. “My name is Worth Wordz. It's a pleasure to meet you all. I’m only in town a few days, so I intend to make the most of the time I’ve got.” 

Worth Wordz gestured politely at the bar. “The sign-up’s free if anyone feels like taking the stage after me." 

Styles edged closer to Nerissa, “Were you referring to performing?”

A smile curved at the corner of Nerissa' lips, “No. Why, is that your thing?”

Styles gave a restrained half-smile. “Yeah, but I strictly write for private use though.” 

“For private use?” she repeated, “That sounds suspiciously like wasted material.” 

Up on stage, Worth Wordz continued, "Oh yeah, the band’s here to support everyone. For those interested, they can play along to anything. He glanced over his shoulder as the musicians filtered in, strings tightened, cymbals whispered to life. “From what I hear, tonight’s just about enjoying ourselves, so don’t be shy.”

“From what I hear, tonight’s just about enjoying ourselves, so don’t be shy”. 

She turned fully toward Styles now. “I dare you to put your name on that list.” 

Searching her face for any hint of irony, he asked, “And if I do?”

After a measured sip of her drink, she replied, “Then you'll have at least one person watching.”

To kill the sudden, charged standoff, she hailed the barkeep. “May I please have two tequila shots,” Nerissa said, sliding her glass aside. “Plus your sign-up sheet, please.”
 

Worth Wordz tapped the mic. “Could we wake the lanterns across the tables while the band settles in?"
 

“Quick, before the show starts.” Nerissa snatched the pen and registered his name.

Switches clicked. The tone softened fully.
 

"That's perfect", Worth Wordz said, stepping back from the mic just long enough to catch the drummer’s eye.

“One, two, three—”

Each syllable took shape, separately heavy, where it fell. On the platform he stayed, mic in hand, while boots articulated the beat against the timber. By the chorus, he lifted the wireless mic from its stand. Together they hit the top, locked in—drums serrated, acoustic a sharp engine for the sequence. Once the line finished, he stepped down, still on tempo.

A new section opened, leather striking floorboards to push the cadence as he divided the lounge. Right at the mesh, his tongue mapped the venue's bare walls. Dark brown leathered booths swallowed the lower frequencies, killing the room's background chatter. In midst of some toasts, wrists locked. Faces tilted, caught in the drift.

At the climax, he occupied the center of the establishment, turning on a heel just as the chord structure compressed. The backing line stood unyielding, allowing the vocal to slice unhindered across the expanse.

Back at center stage, he anchored the delivery, landing square in the front row. The terminal run hit solid, unmarred, absolute. The resonance sank. The final chord faded, leaving the room suspended in an afterglow. Next, a ripple of applause rose warm. 

Worth Wordz lightly bowed toward the audience. “Thank you. Thank you all for listening.” Then at the band. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” 

Still locked on the stage, Nerissa spoke. “He’s good.”

“Yeah,” Styles said, leaning against the laminate. “That’s gonna be a tough act to follow.”

Nerissa turned her glass.“Fortunately, you’re not up next.”

From the edge of the stage, the lead guitarist perused the lines on the clipboard and called out in the mesh, but no one stepped forward. Amid the clink of glassware, the name echoed a second time. Another name pulled a few faces toward empty stools before the rotation moved on. The next name dropped was his. At the sound, the announcement hung. Through the ensuing stretch of silence, he lingered until a light nudge from Nerissa's elbow hit his forearm. “Styles,” she said under her breath. “That’s you.” Eyes closed, he emptied his glass in one tilt. A slight tug at the corner of his mouth answered her smirk. “Thanks for the reminder,” He said, leaving the bar wood.

Right beside the seated drummer, a brief exchange passed between them. Murmurs from the musicians followed as his palm drummed out the tempo. Aligned, he pivoted toward the audience. Around the mic, his fingers clamped. “Hi everyone,” he paused. “This wasn’t on my agenda. But anyway, here we are.”

Among the tables, a subtle stir of amusement rolled.

“I thought I'd share something I've been working on around lately," he added. "It's still rough around the edges, so by all means please be gentle.” Out past the blur of unfamiliar faces, Nerissa filled his field of vision.

Up went her glass in a silent salute. An ironic twitch of his lips answered her before the crowd claimed his attention once more. Out of the tight grip of the metal stand, the mic slid free. A lean brought him onto the perch of a stool, where one leg anchored to the floor while the opposite foot hooked onto the lower rung.

On the third interval, a blunt descent of his forefoot on the ground ignited the chords.

The finale launched a strait run up the neck. One pitch bent under strain. After a controlled descent, the guitarist flattened his hand against the strings. Styles set the mic back on the clip. 

Out on the floor, a wave of approval rose. Through its heat, Nerissa watched him absorb it. 

On the stage, Styles stayed still, hands clamped on the mic. From a brief lift of his fingers came his voice. “Thank you. To everyone here. And you.” A swift glance went to the band before his departure for the bar.

As the clapping ebbed, the guitarist in his directional mic said. “That’s it for now. If anyone else wants to take part, feel free to sign-up at the bar.” A quick hand passed the clipboard to a nearby server. Behind him, the band fell into a loose, unobtrusive groove. Among the tables, voices resumed.

High on the stool, Nerissa’ brown eyes tracked his approach across the floor. 

Beside her, Styles took up his space again. “Still rough around the edges?” She asked.

Over the back of his neck went his palm. “Yeah, it’s still finding its shape.”

A tiny amusement showed in her expression. “Well, it didn’t sound uncertain.” 

“Let's just say it hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet.”

“Or you haven’t.”

To her mouth drifted his focus. “Are you always this sure?”

“Only when someone's unsure.”

Against the timber bar he reset the distance between them, he added “Alright, cool. Anyway, you were right about this place. It does have a certain je ne sais quoi about it.”

“Told you.”

Out of his denim pocket came his phone. The screen lit to 9:35 p.m. “Uhm, I hate to cut this short. But I gotta go. The kitchen where I stay at is closing soon.” 

“Oh yeah? Where are you staying?” Nerissa asked.

“EverGreens.”

A slow curve parted her lips. “That’s not too far from here.”

To a hard limit ran his options, recalculating.

Right through his thought process broke her words. “There’s another place near my side, it’s just a few blocks away from you” she went on. “They serve food different from yours, but I think you’ll like it. They close around eleven.”

Down to his left wrist fell his gaze, twisting his watch face in view. “Oh, the thing is I won’t have much time to grab anything after tonight. I need to leave for the airport first thing in the morning.”

Already mid-motion, her bag swung, “If we leave now, we can make it.” Nerissa said. “Cover my tab here, I'll cover dinner.”

Into a fierce current swept the room as Styles gestured to the barman. Two tables stalled the machine's return. First, a loud circle bickered over the math of a split bill. Next, a stressed waiter hoisted the device toward the rafters, chasing a lost network signal. The mounting delay chafed Styles. Until at his elbow finally whirred the machine. From the slot rolled a slip, onto the reciept his signature. 

By the doorway waited Nerissa. Out in the open shifted layered musical tones. From separate venues escaped contrasting frequencies, intersecting in a loose clash of styles that altered at every step. Behind the glowing glass of some surrounding restaurants dined a few patrons. In other, servers navigated gaps carrying bottles. The hum of voices and soft ripples of amusement mingled in the light stream of oncoming foot traffic. 

They turned together, heading toward the opposite gateway.

Ahead, it seemed to recede as her question shifted their pace. “Do you often travel planless?”

“Not usually, it’s just a spur-of-the-moment” he said, matching her steps. “I like knowing what comes next.”

Moving through the open road, they spoke of the gravity of inherent expectations. Amongst other things, they debated the subtle difference between a blind escape and true arrival. As the restaurant came in view. Behind the closed door, the lights remained on. High on the tables, chairs had already been inverted. While a staff member wiped down the counter, the owner stood at the register, counting the night’s take.
 

Stopping short, Nerissa knocked on the window, hopeful. From inside, one of the staff members glanced over. An apologetic hand followed, accompanied by a sympathetic shake of the head. 

“Sorry, we’re closed.” At the register, the owner continued unfazed.

A tight breath left her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Before she could temper it, her frustration surfaced. “Ah...we nearly made it.” Facing Styles, she pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry I misjudged it.”

“It’s alright,” he said waving it off. “A few extra hours on an empty stomach won’t kill me.”

Down the street he glimpsed, questioning her destination. Directions arrived via subtle gestures, leading them away from the fray, the hushed comfort of ivy-trailing balconies. Upon arrival at the recessed entry, where a heavy awning cast a deep shadow over the weathered steps, a mutual pull transformed a curt thank you to a tempting invitation. 

Jasmine, sweet orange scented candles greeted him inside, creating a sultry, golden pocket that promised a delayed departure.

“Are you good with red?” She asked, already uncorking the bottle. 

“Yeah. Sure. Red is perfectly fine.” Answered Styles, seated in the living room.

Slowly, she extended him a glass. An unhurried quiet descended. Their crystal rims met. Then, dark cherry and plum graced their palates, yielding a surge of spice that permeated a cocoa-clove blend.
 

Beside him, Nerissa settled. “So, are always this easygoing?”

“Depends. Do you always invite strangers over?” Swirling his glass, he questioned.

A subdued laugh escaped her. “No. We are way past that.” 

Between them, the admission sat, small yet noticeable. After that, the conversation meandered. Through some moments, time moved strangely fast; in others, it stretched endlessly, landing them back in the kitchen.

Eventually, their glasses ran empty. As he filled hers up, he cracked a playful joke. Unable to resist, she swiped at his side, forcing him to flinch and inadvertently tip his drink. Over her black chiffon top, deep red liquid splattered. Amidst light laughter, she dabbed paper towels in the damp fabric while he apologized, handing his unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt in return.

In a flurry, she swapped the tops. After a few moments, her frame arched in a full stretch. "I should probably freshen up," she said, travelling the hallway. "Be right back."

Once alone, he pressed his face on the couch, eyes shut. In the passing minutes, silence filled the room. Down the hall, sleep also claimed her near the edge her bed. 

At daybreak, sunlight filtered through the curtains. Nerissa registered the comforting heat of the sheets. The whisper of his scent, clinging to the shirt she’d fallen asleep in. She blinked, stretching gently. Her body was stirred by something new. The wine had worn off, yet a charge remained. 

Barefoot, she padded to the kitchen, the cool tile anchoring her steps. She then turned her gaze toward the living room. Styles laid there stretched across the couch, one arm draped lazily over his chest. The room’s half-light clung to him like memory. For a moment, she simply stood, watching him. Heat surged through her chest. Maybe it was the wine still whispering in her bloodstream. At the back of her mind, she stood thinking.

Near his neck, her fingers touched the shirt as she spoke his name. At the sound, he woke, eyes open. Onto his lap, she moved before doubt grew, flush against his chest. Between them, the space compressed. Pulling them closer, lips a breath away. 

Nerissa drifted inward. And just like that, he gave in. One palm swept up her spine, the other locking her hip close. They kissed, rough and hungry. Then easing slow, teasing and sure. 

A single motion pulled them upright, hands anchoring on her hips. The tension from her waist dissolved. Time stretched on. Together, their mouths crashed passionately as her fingernail lightly tracked against his nape. 

Under her fingers, the cotton gathered. Over his head, he yanked the fabric. At her feet, her own shirt dropped. Up, he hoisted her weight. Onto the kitchen's countertop, she slid. Wide on the cool granite stone, her knees parted and in a blind rush, her hands unhooked her bra clasp while down his legs, his jeans shed, mouths joined. 

Off the counter, her legs bound his waist during the trek to the living room. Upon the arm of the couch, they dropped. Slanted back at the edge of a cushion, her throat bared. Along her skin, his lips descended. Past her neck. Collarbone. Chest. Low, toward her underwear. 

Her fingers clamped his hands.

"Wait. Have you got any rubbers on you?"

Slowly he retreated back to her mouth. "No." 

Then drew her up onto his lap, knees wedged in the cushions. "You were an unexpected surprise," Styles murmured, lips faintly brushing hers.

Fingers interlaced, her smile faltered, for a beat. "I do." She said and led him down the hall, one hand bound.

Between them, a square foil passed by the dressing table. Floorward, the last of the clothes fell. He closed the gap, surrendering to the intense kiss until her weight dragged him flat on the bed, she mounted him legs astride. Over her skin, his palms spanned her hips, tracking her rhythm.

A few beats in, she pinned his wrists to the mattress. Eye contact burned. Weight shifted. Against the sheet, she rolled under him, settling in a slow, steady tempo.

Through the drywall, a rhythmic knock rattled. Off the mattress, her spine arched upright, forcing his weight back until they sat locked chest to chest. Command seized. Into a smoother cadence, she drove long, in controlled swells. Then the momentum flipped. The weight shifted. Her arms locked behind his neck. Around his sides, her legs hooked, anchored in his backward drive. Pinning her frame to the wardrobes solid wood grain.

“No, let me,” breathed in her ear.

Her posture yielded. 

Around her thighs, his brisk hold clamped, he cradled her till heat lengthened through her chest. She gasped, abruptly. Hands free of the grain, she cleared the flat timber. Back toward the mattress, they fell and resumed at a tempered pace. Back and forth. Back and forth, they inhalations matched. Beneath him, she slid. Gradually, he adjusted, broadening his stride. Moan stifled low. Fingers tangled in the sheets. Breaths cut short. Eyes shut fast. Muscles seized involuntary, as the internal tension held them both suspended—then snapped.

Seconds later, he collapsed beside her, entwined. Her leg remained hooked across his hip, hand limp on his chest.

Eventually, time reasserted itself.

After a cold shower; he clothed himself near the couch—tugged on his jeans, plucked his shirt from the floor—imbued by her scent—he buttoned up, eyes on her picking at a breakfast bowl in the kitchen.

"Are you on your way?" she asked.

"Yeah." He said, tucking his phone away, “I need to catch the earliest flight home."

“Sure, a flight.” Nerissa said, sarcastically.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you could at least take my number.”

“Oh, I thought you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

"I’m just pulling your leg Styles, we cool."

“Alright, I hope to see you soon then.” Voice jaunty, Styles said shutting the door behind him.

At the B&B desk he checked out fuss-free, rode a taxi through sunlit streets, and spent the flight watching cloud formations. Meanwhile, Nerissa gave her reflection one last once-over before she wandered the markets.

Sleep claimed the remaining minutes, breaking only at the first tilt of descent. Below the wing, the city reassembled familiar lines. 

At Home. Time evaporated. Long shadows stretched on the bedroom walls. In reverse the weekend looped over his sun-soaked sheets. Prompted by a sudden smile, his eyes began to search the blank ceiling for answers.