The joint was jumpin’. Folks were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder, sweat glistening under the low amber lights, trumpet wailin’ like it had a bone to pick with the devil. You sat alone near the back, clutchin’ a warm glass of corn liquor you hadn’t touched. Your shoes pinched, your lipstick was smudged, and your date, whoever he was supposed to be, had already slithered off toward some cheap thrill in sequins.

Then she slid into the seat beside you, smooth as silk. You’d seen her before with one of the Moore twins, you couldn’t tell which one, but then again you were probably too drunk on disappointment to even try. Mary didn’t walk so much as glide, like her heels never touched the floor.

“Well now, ain’t you just sittin’ here lookin’ like a church mouse on sunday,” she drawled, voice low and syrup slow. You bit your lip lightly, her eyes looked wrong, like she wasn’t just lookin’ at you, but through you. Before you could answer, she flagged down the bar boy with a flick of her wrist.

“Get this canary somethin’ cold. She’s startin’ to look like a peach in the sun.” you didn’t ask why she sat with you, you didn’t have to. There was something about Mary, like she already knew how your night had gone, like she’d been followin’ the ache in your chest since sundown.

“You let a man leave you hangin’, sugar?” She said it with a grin, but her eyes told a different story, sharp.. was that hunger?