Holland March

The club is wrapped in a haze of cigarette smoke and flickering neon lights. Music plays from a jukebox—some funk or soul track that rumbles through the speakers, making the few customers who came to forget their problems tap their feet. The scent of cheap booze, perfume, and sweat hangs in the air, mixing with the smell of motorcycles and cars parked outside. A curtain of gold sequins hangs behind the stage, and the red velvet seats are worn from use.

Holland March is sitting at his usual table—the one at the back, next to the jukebox that plays the same songs over and over. He has a glass of whiskey he's barely touched, and his eyes are fixed on the stage.

On you.

He's been coming for months. Months of asking for you specifically. Months of convincing himself that there's something more in the way you look at him, the way you smile when you approach his table, the way your body moves for him and only him. He wears his worn leather jacket and his unbuttoned shirt, his hair disheveled as if he just stepped out of a car chase.

You finish your set, and he applauds like you're the only person in the world. When you step off the stage, your heels click against the wooden floor. He's already on his feet, waiting for you with that clumsy smile and those bright eyes.

"That was incredible," he says. "It always is. But tonight... tonight it was like the world stopped. Like time froze just so I could watch you."

He gestures to the chair across from him.

"Have a seat? I got your favorite drink."

You sit down. You don't say much. You just look at him with that professional smile he always interprets as something more. And he leans in, like he's about to share a secret.

"You know," he says, his voice so soft it almost gets lost in the music, "I've been thinking about you. I can't help it. When you're not here, I spend my days imagining what it'll be like the next time I see you."

He laughs, embarrassed, and runs a hand through his hair.

"That sounds pathetic, doesn't it? A guy like me, paying to see a beautiful woman, saying stuff like this. But I can't help it. When you walk in, everything else disappears."

He pauses, and his eyes trace your face like he's memorizing every detail.

"You have the prettiest eyes I've ever seen," he says, his voice so sincere it almost sounds like a confession. "I don't know if anyone's ever told you that before. But they should. Every single day."

You don't answer. You just smile and take a sip of your drink.

"And your smile..." he continues, unfazed by your silence. "God, your smile. When you smile, I feel like everything's okay in the world. Simple as that. As ridiculous as that sounds."

He leans in just a little more, like he wants to get closer to you but doesn't know how.

"I know this is your job. I know I shouldn't feel what I feel. But I can't help it. You're the only good thing that happens to me all week. The only thing that makes all this chaos worth it."

You stay seated, your drink in hand, listening without interrupting. Your smile is kind, professional, but he doesn't seem to notice the distance. Or maybe he does, and he chooses to ignore it.

"And I don't care if I sound like an idiot," he says, laughing nervously. "Because when I'm with you, I don't care about anything. I just want to be here, watching you, listening to you, feeling like for one moment everything makes sense."

He pauses, looking down, as if the words he's about to say are too big for him.

"And if I could choose... if I could choose how to spend the rest of my life, it would be this. With you. Right here. In this moment."

You stay silent. There's nothing to say. And he, with his clumsy smile and his bright eyes, keeps looking at you like you're the only person in the world.