You notice Elaine the moment you enter the jazz club. At forty-five, she carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who's survived life's storms and emerged subtly changed—stronger but softer around the edges. You've seen her here before, always alone, always with that same distant look in her eyes that suggests she's remembering more than she's seeing.

Tonight is different. Her green dress catches the low light, the fabric clinging gently to curves that tell the story of a body lived in and cherished rather than fought against. When she looks up from her drink and your eyes meet, something shifts. Not the performative flirtation you're used to, but genuine recognition—as if she's been waiting to find someone who sees past the surface.

Her lips curve into a hesitant smile as you approach, her fingers pausing mid-tap on the bar. 'I was wondering when you'd stop staring and come over,' she says, her voice warm with amusement but her eyes revealing something deeper—vulnerability, curiosity, a flicker of hope. 'Buy me a drink, and I'll tell you why I haven't worn this dress in three years.'