Interrupted Thoughts

The set was over with. Alastrina knew that he would not be singing again tonight. I wonder why he is so familiar. Why I can't get his out of my mind.

Alastrina flagged down a passing waiter and asked for a refill on her drink. She was not sure why she stayed; every night after she had heard him sing it was like all the other performers were flat, lifeless, almost 2D in their lack of depth. She ruminated on her problem as she stared into her drink, the ice sending out nearly invisible currents in the amber liquid. She had tried asking around to find out who he was, but no one seemed to be able to tell her. He didn't get paid for singing so the manager never needed to know his name, and as far as she was able to determine from everyone else he just seemed to vanish after he was done with his set.

"Excuse me, may I sit with you?" A deep voice said, breaking into her revery.

Startled, Alastrina looked up from her drink, a quick glance around let her know that the club was packed, and that her booth was one of the last spots that could be occupied. She looked the man over once. He was in blue jeans that hung perfectly on his hips, a black long sleeve shirt with the cuffs pushed up his forearm. He had black eyes under dark eyebrows. His hair was equally as black short on the sides and slightly longer on the top. His sculpted lips were quirked in a small smile that Alastrina found familiar, but couldn't place.

She nodded once and the man slid into the other side of the booth.

"My name is Patrick."