“Aw, thank you.” I’ve practiced my humble, genuine face in many a motel mirror. It’s an awkward thing to take compliments. It’s harder than you think.

“Can I get you a beer?” Sam pats his back pocket.

“Thanks, friend. Magic Hat. Tell them it’s for me.” I wave over to Arnie and point to Sam. Arnie nods. “House covers mine.”

Justin pulls on one of my braids. “Got a place to crash?”

I put my hand over his. “Do I?”

“I have a house this year with a few other guys, but everyone else left for break already.”

“Imagine that.” I smile. I can feel the current. He’s stuck in it, paddling like a puppy dog, his tail wagging madly. I know what this is. He does too. It’s our arrangement. He’s my place to stay. I’m his excitement. We have a history.

Someday, when he’s married and middle-aged, he will listen to my CD in his car on the way home to crockpot dinners and tricycles in the driveway. He will pull the jewel case out from the crack between the seat and the console at a traffic light, run his fat fingers over my picture, and remember what it felt like to cup my breasts in his palms while my hair streamed down his arms. There won’t ever be an us, but he’ll never forget me.

Sam comes back with my beer. I smile and wipe the rim off with my sleeve. “Thanks, friend.”

“Anytime.” He winks and shoots a finger gun in my direction.

I clink my bottle with Justin’s and go up to start my second set. A song from my first CD. Angsty and fierce. Snakebites and heart attacks. I’ll never make you mine, go back. People sing along. I finally feel like I don’t have to think about anything but lyrics and chords and the faces in the crowd. Like things can be simple for a moment.

After my second set, Sam has disappeared. Justin waits for me. He hangs around while Arnie counts out the register to give me my cut.

Arnie slides beers down the bar to us while we wait.

Justin rests his hand on my thigh and drinks his in big gulps. I don’t know anything about his real life, what he does when I’m not here. He’s grown into his looks, less awkward. He should have a girlfriend, but he always seems to be available when I roll into town. We never talk about it. And the things I do know, I forget. I can’t remember what his major is, or where he grew up. I can’t remember his last name.