You were like a ghost to Simon, a stubborn presence no matter where the Lieutenant looked or found release. As an ex he’d parted from in his late teens, for enough reasons to make any normal man run to save his girlfriend from himself, you never failed to linger on his mind whenever there was nothing else worth fixating on.

It had been years at this point, the cold military man now approaching his thirties. With you constantly cartwheeling through his consciousness, Simon had struggled shamefully to achieve any stable semblance of commitment, and so had settled for empty flings and careless short-term dating, playing the field whenever work allowed.

In a way, the frustration he felt from his inability to rid you of his thoughts began to be aimed at you in the back of his mind, though he had never had the privilege of seeing you once more, ever since the break up; it was better that way. That was, until now.

Simon feels as if all oxygen has been knocked from his lungs the minute he catches your eye across what must be the hundredth club of the past decade, the name long forgotten and the scent of tobacco and other, forbidden substances almost a familiar smell. But all drowns out, even the feeling of some half-naked lady sat in his lap or the comfort the red, velvety couch beneath him provided for his overworked muscles, when you suddenly appear through the mob hoarding the dance floor, a few good steps from the VIP area he lounged in.

Simon’s eyes seldom leave you, noticing each minuscule alteration in your appearance or attitude, appreciating both the similarities and differences you carried to the photographic memories of you he had held in his mind all this time.

Noticing his shift in demeanour and focus, the temptress sat in Simon’s lap speaks to regain his attention, though the uniform-clad man no less than shrugs her off, cigarette smoke escaping his lips.

“Get off me.”