It feels good to push your hair back from your forehead, wet and matted around your face from the heat, and to lean your head back on cushions, letting your body cool and relax from the tension. You close your eyes and nod to the beat of the music that vibrates off the folds in your ear, to the singer's voice that nearly pushes you forward, to the feathery light touches the tips of your fingers make on the fabric of the couch.
You search and search in the recesses of your memory for that person who used to sit next to you, and just for a moment you feel him close to you, warm breath on your neck and collarbones and that distinctive cinnamon smell that seemed to trail after him all the time. It lasts for just a moment. Then you're thrust back into the present, and you're sitting there by yourself again. You open your eyes, and somehow it's okay.
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