I watch her swaying to the music and flipping through the songbook on the table. It’s not until I go to sip my beer that I realize I’m smiling like a fucking idiot.

Surprise, surprise. Devin hasn’t said much tonight. But it’s not a brooding quiet. It’s an attentive quiet. When a singer finishes, I lean into him and tell him what I think. He responds with one of his many grunts. He’s taking in everything around him, but he doesn’t feel the need to comment on all of it just to fill the empty space. It’s refreshing.

He isn’t bored or distracted. He’s focused on me. He watches me sway my hips and sing along to the latest amateur singer up on stage. He isn’t touching me, but I brush my body against his every few minutes to tease him.

The next guy takes the stage and we’re in for a treat. He has to be over fifty if he’s a day. He must have been going for silver fox, but, dressed in head-to-toe leather, he’s ended up looking more like the poster child for a mid-life crisis.

He’s rocking studded red boots, skin-tight low-rise leather pants and a cow-print jacket that may have been a rug in a previous life. I can’t tell if the sheen on his bare chest is from sweating in all that leather or if he oiled himself up for the occasion. His long, stringy salt-and-pepper hair is pulled away from his face by a red silk scarf that matches those boots. He shakes his head, hops up and down a few times and points to the D.J. like the diva he is. Up on stage, he belts out an Aerosmith ballad at the top of his lungs.

He’s the best of the night. Not because he can sing but for the sheer entertainment factor. The wannabe rockstar is in the zone, one hundred percent committed to his performance. I admire someone who throws themselves into something so completely. There is a heroism in his reckless abandon.

I peek over my shoulder at Devin. His face is stoic, as always. He cocks an eyebrow at me. I know that look. He uses that one on me often. That’s his ‘you can’t be serious’ look. He’s mocking me. He’s too cool to be enthusiastic about anything. Ever. But I know he’s a faker, having fun even though I’d have to torture him to get him to admit it.

Wannabe finishes his solo with a flourish, dropping the mic, throwing his arms wide and dipping his head back. The place erupts in applause. I hoot and whistle in support. He hops off the stage with a simper and a wave, walking straight to me. He sidles up to the bar and I can’t control my amused grin. Wannabe mistakes that as a sign of interest.

“You like my song, beautiful?” he asks, licking his wrist and applying salt in what I assume is a misconceived attempt at seduction.