Right as the sun set, the last gleaming rays of day deescalating into purple hues of nocturnal slumber, I stepped outside, got into my car, and drove into the city. The buildings passed, not suburban but rather antiquated, as I rapidly approached the city proper. Driving into it is like being born. You enter a long tunnel and then emerge over water, the broth of life, with the city spanning in front of you, her soft evening glow so inviting. It’s totally dark by now.

The highway peels off, asymptotic to the southern shore of the city, and I followed it east, heading to the social scene I was most willing to accept. A few exits later, I left the highway and found myself navigating congestion while the sidewalks throbbed with the energy of the city. People not yet aware of their purpose in life but driven by it. The youth of the city are its lifeblood, not yet worn down by the unavoidability of life.

Three blocks and a left took me to the Foxhole, a club I sometimes frequented. I was met by melancholy slow rock as I entered; the band on stage was one I heard of before, fronted by a woman with a voice that would be the envy of the world if she sang mainstream music. It was an establishment that allowed smoking, and as a result bore a haze and a stench not necessarily unappealing but forceful. I approached the bar, ordered an Imperial Stout, and sat, concentrating on nothing but the smoky and rich flavor of the beer and the pitch perfect sadness of the singer’s lamentations.

A woman approached. She was a few years younger and a few inches shorter than me, physically fit, with mussed dirty blonde hair in a pixie cut and tunnels, the smallest size there was. A small lip ring and a tight tee shirt with a band logo that copped the Pan Am logo completed the look. She came up brazenly, sat beside me and ordered an IPA. The last song had ended and the next was just beginning when she suddenly seemed to notice my presence; I had apparently blended into the scenery before.

“Hello,” she said. She smiled a crooked smile, kind of half nodding to me, then turned to her beer, sipping it demurely. I smiled back, though she was no longer looking, and said simply, “Hi.” We sat in silence.

After the band finishes playing, I will ask her for her number. I will write it down. I will leave, but the next day, I will call her. She will answer and we will meet for coffee. She is a writer or a painter, probably, attending the college in town. We hit it off. We get together again, more than once, at bars, at restaurants, at each others’ homes where we stay the night, have passionate sex, become intimate and eventually secure with each other.

There will be difficult times. She will criticize me for my lack of motivation. I will have trouble sharing in her enthusiasm for political issues and healthy living. But these things will pass and soon we will admit openly our love for each other. She will meet my parents and they will not approve. I will meet hers and things will go more smoothly. I will meet her siblings. I will be friendly, even close, with them, being an only child myself.

Just after Christmas two year after we met, I will propose. We will marry a year later. We will get jobs and become legitimate adults. She will wear blouses and slacks instead of jeans and band shirts. She will remove the lip ring and her hair will grow longer. I will start to bald. We will have children. Two daughters. They will be good kids, smart and sassy like their mom, and before we know it, they will be off to school themselves, to meet their shady and geeky boyfriends in musty bars listening to bands that strike chords within their soles beyond words that only they can understand. We will miss them but we will continue to love each other as our hair grays and our bodies sag.

She will die first. I will attend the funeral and in coming to the stage to speak, I will instead break down and cry. My daughters, married and with children themselves now, will help me back to my seat, their tears somehow more measured and dignified, the last remnants of her influence on this world; the genes of a strong woman present in our offspring. I will sit in the chair and force myself to tune out, the pain too much to bear. And some number of years will pass and I too will die and wherever she went, I will be there too.

“Cheers,” she said, before slipping off the bar stool and away from me. I was speechless. She disappeared into the throbbing crowd. The band’s next song had started and it was heavier, so the dancing became more forceful. For two hours, I looked into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of her again, but to no avail. Then the band finished their last set and departed. I went to the door and stood, watching as everyone left, trying to scan for her. Somehow, I missed her. The room had emptied.

Some time later, not totally remembering all that had transpired, I returned to my vehicle and drove home. I don’t know what her name was.