Harley stirred her drink, and the little red straw disappeared into the colorful cocktail. She didn’t know why she’d ordered it. Three days a week, she’d come sit at this bar after work, sit in the same chair, and order the same drink, only because it was a blip of color in a rather monochrome selection of wine coolers and beers. But she never drank it.
The first time she came was a fluke. A flat tire forced her to pull over on her way back from a wedding. With her phone dead and her charger AWOL, she had no choice but to look for a phone. With nothing else opened, she’d stumbled inside from the rain. She expected to find past-their-prime players doing covers of songs. What she found instead was a man who made her soul vibrate.
Harley caught herself whispering the words of “Ain’t No Suns
