I came stumbling up to the table where our group of friends were gathered. Rather, I should say that they were Ly’s friends; they only patronized me because Ly and I were so close, and they wanted to be part of that closeness. This suited me just fine, as I was so high I could barely remember any of their names. But I smiled, joked, and jolted around as though I was best friends with them all. They, in turn, bought me booze, cut me lines, and passed me pills; anything to try to become closer to me. Then they started asking me questions about my artistic practice. And even though I knew they weren’t the least bit interested in hearing my response, I still spewed out an answer so complex, concise, and complete that everyone around me seemed to understand exactly what I meant. 

We all fell silent as the second opening act of the night began, and our collective focus was directed to this as-yet-unheard collection of songs being performed for us. Melancholy set over me as I began to wonder if Elio was going to show up. I had worn his hoodie. Partly so that I could return it to him, and partly because I thought it would act as a beacon that would attract him to me.

I was beginning to realize how foolish this all seemed when I felt a presence slowly make itself known from behind me. Suddenly, two toned, flexed arms wrapped themselves around my ribcage, pulled my body tight against a rock-hard torso, and began twirling me around in circles. Through my spine, I could feel this person’s heart rate increase as he let out a low squeal of joy at holding me in his arms.

He set me down, then spun me around so I faced him. It was Elio. “I missed you!” he whispered.

“I missed you too!” I was so high I wasn’t certain if I had spoken these words or merely mouthed them. But the smile that crossed Elio's face told me that he had, at the very least, understood me.

We wandered up to the bar and he ordered us each a whisky and coke along with a shot of Jägermeister and a can of Red Bull. We dropped the shots into half-full glasses of energy drink, clinked our cups together, and slammed back the sweet, energizing, and inebriating beverage. We each took quick, deep breaths as we lapped the sticky aftertaste from our lips.

“So, is Lysander James your friend’s real name?” Elio asked as he swirled his drink around then took a sip from a straw that was planted firmly in the centre of the cup.

“Not exactly,” I responded. “His first name is Lysander, but the James part is something I invented.” I cleared my throat before continuing. “See, we’re both obsessed with James Dean. So, I suggested he start using the last name James as a sort of tribute. Ly liked the idea and he’s been using the name ever since.”

“So, his first name really is Lysander?” Elio’s voice expressed complete doubt as he posed this question.

I snorted, smiled, and replied, “Yeah!”

“Are his parent’s total snobs or something?” Elio asked as the pitch of his voice heightened and he raised his palms in the air.

I twisted my head, so the right side of my face was directed towards the ceiling. I squinted my eyes, pursed my lips, and pondered this question for an amusing length of time. “Well, they are British, and incredibly wealthy. So, yeah, I guess they are total snobs!”

We both burst out laughing and high-fived in joyous reaction to my facetious retort.

The bar lights dimmed, and the stage lights brightened to announce Ly’s appearance. Backed by a full ensemble of talented musicians, Ly powered through a set of original songs and recognizable covers that flowed into each other without beginning or end.

“I thought you said he was performing solo!” Elio yelled at me over the pounding of the speakers that stood dozens of feet from our table, yet still sent violent vibrations through our bodies and muffled every word we spoke.

“This is his solo work!” I yelled back at him. “It’s just that sometimes he uses a backing band!” I leaned my head against Elio's ear and shouted a quick run-down of Ly's musical career. I was filled with a sense of self-satisfaction as I humbly bragged about my close, personal knowledge of Lysander. Without saying a word, Elio turned his attention to the stage and began bobbing his head in rhythm to the music.

After a fifteen-minute raucous, rock-inspired, musical rampage, Ly slowed the rhythm with a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Lay, Lady, Lay.”

“I’ve always wanted to dance to this song,” I inadvertently muttered, then struggled to convince myself no one had heard.

But apparently Elio had heard, because he set his drink on the table, wrapped his left hand around my right hand, and quickly guided me to the centre of the dance floor. He pulled me close and let out a subtle gasp as he wrapped his hands around my waist and the tips of his thumbs and middle fingers touched together in a perfect circle. He swallowed his concern, nuzzled his head against my neck, and began slowly swaying his body. His hips were pressed firmly against mine so I could feel the heat radiating from his crotch just as I was sure he could feel the heat radiating from mine. I cupped my hands around his tensed shoulders and fought back tears of joy as I relished every moment of our embrace. 

The band shifted tempo to a more upbeat number. Elio and I drifted away from each other so that a large, vacant gap lay between us, broken only by the subtle touch of our joined fingertips.