You're dancing again, and Thom shows up again.

West Coast. Low lights, waves crashing lazily in the distance, as if they're also tired of watching you disappear into all those arms that mean nothing. You're moving like you're trying not to be found. Like your body could dissolve memory, or at least blur it. But he sees you. He always sees you. Old Thom. The one with eyes that no longer seem surprised, but still feel. He watches you from the shadows of the bar, in that wrinkled shirt and slightly slumped shoulders, like he's listening to a slower rhythm than the one playing.

You notice him. You feel him before his steps carry him to the blurry line between smoke and sweat. “It's you again,” someone whispers behind you, and you don't need to turn. You know it's him.

You take a drink out of habit. It's not your favorite, but who cares? “If you're not drinking, then you're not playing,” you said once, laughing with a mouth full of salt. He remembers. He always remembers.

“You're dancing like the world is about to end,” he says, and you laugh. Because, in some way, it already has.

You move closer, without asking. You run a hand along his neck, like he’s an anchor long forgotten.