What attracts us to someone? Their beauty? Their eyes? Their lips? Their laugh? Their touch?. . .

I met a good friend out for a drink and a listen to live music. I didn’t really want to. Having been out late the night before I was looking forward to catching up on sleep after a quick stop at the grocery store. I’m running this plan through my brain, sighing a little at the thought of my soft bamboo sheets, as I lock up my bike outside the dispensary, when I hear “Juniper!”

Only Pat calls me that. Uses my middle name as my first. I sashay over in my rainbow for Pride lit up tutu and say it’s between bands at the amphitheater. They’re biking around in the spontaneous gear of see-what’s-happening that’s so easy to do in Key West, especially on Duval Street. We go our separate ways but say we’ll stay in touch.

Once back at the amphitheater, dancing and writing in my head for a couple songs, something inside me start to drift. My mind’s casting about for alternatives and though I’ve just returned, I leave out the gates again. Pat’s texted me “At the tuna (Smokin’ Tuna) watching Marshall Morlock.” It’s a bar I’m not fond of and a band that’s been on my To-See list for half a year. I bike on over.

His friend Rob gives up his stool, but the crazy good cover of Message In a Bottle demands booty shaking, head banging, and fist pumping. Marshall Morlock’s guitar prowess continues and my “Just for one drink” quickly becomes a “Do I really need to stop at the store?” And after he strums the first notes of Purple Rain, turns to a declaration, “Sleep! Who needs sleep!?!” My mind scoffs.

The attraction to Rob begins when the night is ending. Already ended — it’s after midnight. He goes to high-five me goodbye and I feel something when our palms touch that makes me thread my fingers through his and curl them over his knuckles. Our hands separate after an instant, then for some reason we do it again. As a test? That feeling increases. It’s an inner smile somewhere behind my solar plexus, a warmth on an already steamy hot night. He follows my lead, folding his fingers the same way, latching us in, but holding me loosely enough so I don’t feel bound by it. He’s holding me, but I’m free to go.

A delicious, delicate, balance.

His skin’s dry roughness makes my soft skin even softer. I’m aware I don’t want to let go this time. So I don’t. Slowly dancing away, I raise our outstretched arms and twirl underneath them until they can stretch no further; swinging my hips and dancing myself out the door. I climb onto the seat of my bike wondering, What was that? The only answer is, Whatever it was, I like it. And I’d like more.