With the sun vanished in the sky, Bee and I drive across town. On the Sunset Strip, there’s already a line around the block at the Whisky a Go Go. Tall boots, taller egos. I envy those kids. Years ago, I was just like them. I used to dance at every party, in every parlor. Sometimes I danced alone, and sometimes I danced with Mina, the two of us turning in circles until we were giddy.

Then I met him. On a lonely street in England, he asked me to dance, and all these years later, I’m still dizzy from it, the ghost of his hand on my back still enough to make my skin crawl. Enough to make me never want to dance again.

We pull up to the drive-in just as the first film’s about to begin. “Good to see you two again,” Walter says from the crumbling ticket booth.

Of course he’s glad we’re here. Other than a couple in a Studebaker toward the back and the two in the silver Pontiac Banshee in the front row, the lot’s mostly empty. These days, Bee and I are about the only regular customers left. Everyone else has drifted away to the Cinerama Dome on Sunset or the Golden Gate Theatre on Whittier. Drive-ins are quaint now, relics of the past. Maybe that’s why Bee and I like it so much here.

We opt for James Bond tonight, and it’s all squibs and swelling music and well-coiffed women whose names 007 forgets long before the end credits roll. I try to focus on the film, but everything aches inside me. My hunger’s sharper than before, coming over me in waves.

At intermission, I stumble out of the car. “You want anything?”

“The usual,” Bee murmurs, and I know what that means. Two drinks, one popcorn, extra butter. This is it, all there is. An eternity of reruns.

My head down, I push through the door into the lobby, but I’m not alone this time. There’s a young man behind the counter, his back to me, moving like a ghost past the popcorn machine. This must be Michael, Walter’s grandson. He turns a little, still not seeing me, his face in profile. My gaze slides slowly over him. Sharp jaw, sandy hair, steel-blue eyes. He could be a young William Holden, a golden boy, a promise the world won’t keep.

A strange sensation flickers in me, and I’m leaning against the counter now. I should say something—get his attention, get my popcorn, get back to Bee—but I keep watching him. And listening.