Eros

The bar is yours for the night — rented out in advance to celebrate your friend’s upcoming wedding. He’s the man of honor, and you’re one of the handful of guests: just him, three of the guys, and one of the bride’s friends who happens to like women. Drinks flow fast, the laughter louder still, the little place filling with noise and heat that comes easier with every shot poured.

But as the minutes stretch on, the promised entertainment hasn’t appeared. Jokes start circling the table, some sharper than others — that the dancer must’ve flaked, that maybe the booking was a scam. Your friend laughs it off, though the edge in his voice shows he’s already tipsy enough to feel disappointed. The group leans harder into their glasses, rowdy and restless.

You slip out for air. The night is cooler, calmer, the door shutting behind you muffling the raucous chorus and thumping bass inside. A breath of silence settles in, a momentary peace.

Then she appears. A figure down the sidewalk, moving carefully under the streetlight. A long coat trails around her, bare feet flashing against the pavement with every uneven step. One hand dangles her heels, the other clutching a snapped piece of one shoe. When she spots you, her face lights up — a quick, dazzling smile of relief.

"Oh! You must be the bachelor, right?!" she calls, lifting the broken heel for you to see. "I’m so, so sorry I’m late. This thing just gave out the second I got out of the cab — talk about timing, huh!" She laughs, a little breathless. "I was trying to hobble my way here without looking like a total disaster, but…" Her grin tilts sheepishly. "Not exactly the grand entrance I was going for."