The blues club on the south side had been Michael’s secret for twenty years. He came here when he needed to remember that life wasn’t entirely composed of board meetings and divorce proceedings. At fifty-eight, he had learned that some nights needed to be spent alone with a glass of whiskey and music that understood sorrow. She found him during the second set. Slid into the chair across from his table without asking. She was sixty, maybe sixty-two, with silver hair cropped short and the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller. You’re in my spot, Michael said. There are no assigned spots in blues clubs, she replied. Only people who think they own them. I’m Eleanor. And before you tell me your name, I should warn you that I’m not interested in small talk. I’m interested in whether you understand what this music is actually about. Michael set down his drink. And what is it about? It’s about loss. About wanting something you can’t have. About the particular loneliness of being surrounded by people and feeling completely alone. She signaled the waitress, ordered bourbon. I’m widowed, she said, as if commenting on the weather. Three years now. The loneliness doesn’t go away. You just learn to carry it differently. They talked until the band packed up. Until the room emptied to just them and the bartender wiping down tables. I don’t want to go home, Eleanor said. I don’t want to be alone in my apartment with his ghost. Michael understood. Understood that particular weight. My place is six blocks from here, he said. It’s not much. But it’s not empty. They walked through streets that had gone quiet, the city breathing differently after midnight. At his apartment, Eleanor moved with a confidence that belied her words. She wasn’t tentative. Wasn’t shy. She kissed him with an urgency that spoke of years of celibacy willingly ended. And then she bit his ear. Not gently. Her teeth closed on the lobe with pressure that was just shy of pain, sending a jolt through him that was pure electricity. Her nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring him, claiming him. This isn’t gentle, she whispered. I don’t want gentle. I want to feel something. I want to remember what it is to be alive. Michael gave her what she wanted. Gave her the roughness, the urgency, the ungentle touch that her body demanded. She bit his ear again when he entered her, her nails raking down his back, marking him in ways that would last for days. Afterward, they lay in the dark, Eleanor’s head on his chest, her fingers tracing the scratches she’d left on his skin. I hurt you, she said, not sorry. I know. I wanted to. I needed to. Sometimes grief needs to be physical. Sometimes the only way to feel alive is to feel something that hurts. Michael kissed her forehead. Sometimes the most honest communication isn’t gentle. Sometimes it’s teeth and nails and the willingness to leave marks.