He slips in through the club's side door.

She's on the raised platform, reciting, her face animated, alive, wild hand gestures flailing.

He finds a seat a round table, transfixed.

He hopes she wrote the poetry herself.

Because it flames.

Like her. And her hair.

When she's done, his feet hit the ground, and his maneuvering around chairs.

To talk to her. Because she's amazing.

Except he has no idea what to say. Which makes it good when she asks, "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah, I'd love one. Except, I'll pay."

"What the hell is this? The twelfth century?"