Soon, I catch a hint of female laughter carrying from outside. I smile in anticipation, but lose some of my enthusiasm when the door opens. A group of women saunter in, but I doubt they’re at The Rabbit Hole for fiber crafts.

They’re dressed for a night out. Of course, it’s night, and I’m out. But I’m not out like they’re out. Specifically, I dressed to combat the growing chill in the air. These three women are dressed as if they’re ready to tell the cold to go fuck itself.

Their Daisy Dukes and midriff-revealing tops make me wistful for hot summer days. Ones I’ve sadly waved goodbye to for the year. Ones these women cling to in an admirable manner.

Now, it’s completely possible the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch treat the gathering like a tailgate party. But the bar’s newest arrivals also have no kinds of supplies. Not even a purse between them.

Not the group I’m waiting for, but I still offer a friendly smile when their sharp eyes settle on me.

One smiles back with a wink, and the other two dismiss me in favor of leaning on the bar to call out drink orders to Grunt. He has no name tag, so that’s what I’ve named him. A small twinge of worry in my chest disappears when he doesn’t talk to these women either. At least I’m not the only one unworthy of verbal acknowledgment.

I go back to door-gazing.

The girls get their drinks and claim a table, their laughter bringing brightness to the dingy bar.

Five minutes pass. I sip my drink.

Ten minutes go. I realize I’m halfway through my glass and tell myself to slow down.

Another five.

Shouldn’t someone have shown up by now?

Could they have canceled this week’s get-together?

The flyer said Sip ’N’ Stitch meets at The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday night at seven p.m. No mention of blackout dates, and today is not any holiday that I know of.

I’m about to check if my phone gets service here so maybe I can look up announcements on the library’s website when a soft roaring rumbles from outside the bar.

The girls’ chatter pauses briefly, then starts up again with renewed vigor. I take another precious sip of my bourbon as the familiar sound grows louder, giving me an unexpected taste of home.

Away for less than a week, but I guess I’ve been missing it.

Soon, there’s an almost-orchestra-level of roaring engines, the chorus practically surrounding the bar.

That’s when I realize they are surrounding the bar.

Apparently, in small towns, holding a crocheting club at a biker bar is no big deal.