Their first time was nothing special. The smell of stale sweat and alcohol hung over the room as the offending parties were lost in a tangle of limbs and drunken desire. Over the months that followed, this practice became a routine: they would meet at the club, dance for a bit, and then return to his place. The next morning, he would wake up alone, the lingering scent of her perfume being the only proof that she was real, and not a figment of his imagination as he had first suspected.

One night, however, she didn't show up. He arrived at the club early and took up his usual perch at the bar, anticipating the conversation and the intimacy that the night would bring. Hours later, he left; it was closing time and, for the first time in a long time, he was going home alone. Slowly, this became his new routine - waiting for someone who would not grace him with her presence - until he finally abandoned it completely, throwing himself into his work to distract himself from the strange feeling of loneliness that crept in after each failed meeting.

Days turned into months, turned into years. It took a particularly tough day at work and the threat of layoffs to drive him back to the club and, as he waited for a drink, a familiar woman approached him. It was her. Their conversation effortlessly picked up where it had left off those many years ago, and the night that followed was the same as their first.

As they lay in bed together, he softly asked, "Why did you leave? And why, after all these years, did you find me again?" There was no response; she was already asleep.

The next morning, as he had come to expect, she was gone. He rolled over, hoping to salvage a few extra hours of sleep, and his hand came into contact with a note that she had left on the pillow. I was starting to fall in love with you.