The glow from a chandelier above the bar bathes the two in warm light, reflects the shine of his gold watchband as she absently strokes the back of his hand, her knees angled toward his, his hand resting on the back of her chair and when he leans in to speak over the din of the happy hour, he brushes her hair back with his hand, slides his arm around her shoulders and his lips touch her ear and, behind them, at a table for one, a woman watches, stops breathing, and remembers, remembers having someone to stroke her hair, whisper into her ear, to rub her back, zip the zipper on her dress, kiss her neck, to spoon at night and nuzzle in the morning, to lace her fingers with and feel the warmth of his hand as their palms meet; and remembers being held—real hugs, not the quick ones from friends, nor the ones where you slide your arm between your breasts before leaning in, but long embraces, pressed together, burrowing into each other, his face in her hair, and for so long the thought of holding someone else made her feel sick and it still often does—but she orders one more, and she thinks, maybe it wouldn’t with him—the bartender with the soft eyes and tattooed birds flying up his arm, or the man at the end of the bar, leather jacket and two-day scruff, nursing a ginger ale and reading the Times, or even perhaps with you, perhaps you’ll do, your skin, your hands, your warm breath on her neck, your heart thumping against hers might just keep her from shriveling up and floating away, weightless.