She wore a loose flannel over a black tank top, not dressed like a server, but that didn’t much matter in a place like this.

“No,” I said, “thank you. I think we’re good.”

“Ok,” she said, “but let me know if you do. If you do need anything, I can get it for you. I know everyone in here.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t work here,” she said. “But that doesn’t matter.” She extended a hand. “I’m Suzanne.”

“Julian,” I said, and shook it. “Pleasure.”

Her skin was fair and her hair a fiery red, waving slightly as it fell down to her shoulders. Her eyes were brown, or black.

“You’re not from Colorado,” she said. It was a statement.

“No,” I said, “New York.”

“New York,” she said and her eyes widened. She put her hand on my chest. “New York. That’s precious. You’re precious.”

Her hand slid off and she looked at me, and I looked back. She raised two fingers toward the bar and a bartender was there.

“Hey babe,” she said and leaned toward him. “Two Belgian’s for these gentlemen, please.”

In a moment, they were poured.

“Now aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” she asked, sipping a beer of her own.

“Sure,” I said, and introduced him.

“You two are cousins?” she asked, excited again. “That’s delightful.”

“It is?” Anthony asked.

“Yes, Anthony, it is,” she said. “Positively delightful.”

I looked at him and he looked at me, and neither of us knew what to say.

“Thanks for the beers,” I told her finally.

“I told you I’d take care of you.” Her eyelashes fluttered a little, just enough to notice. She wouldn’t have caught my eye in a normal setting. Pasty skin, a button nose, a simple haircut. Slender, flat chested. Not beautiful, but cute, in a quirky sort of way.

These were my thoughts the night I met her. Suzanne. She was not beautiful, perhaps she was cute. She was odd, but the oddness was intriguing. The oddness made me want to know more. I identified this immediately, and it never went away.

She gently grabbed my hand and led me across the crowded room.

“Come, both of you,” she said, motioning for Anthony to follow. “Meet my friends.” He picked his beer up and came along.

She leaned in to me as we walked, squeezing between groups and dodging waitresses. “Now, Mr. Julian, how long ago was New York?”

“Like, how long have I been here?”

“Yes, Julian.”

I thought to myself. “Five days.”

“Five days!” she exclaimed. “Straight from New York?”

I nodded. “Drove the whole way.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling and putting a hand on my back, “what a world.”

I again looked back at Anthony, who shook his head. We stopped moving, and stood before a circular group of ten.

Suzanne spoke, raising her voice. “Everyone, this is Julian and Anthony. Julian and Anthony, this is everyone.”

They were a friendly bunch. Immediately they descended upon us—both of us—with handshakes and questions. Everyone had some sort of beard or nose ring or tattoo. Suzanne made an announcement about New York—New York—and the mixture of men and women buzzed with congratulatory excitement. I shook hands and learned many names I would not remember. One particularly tall man told a story about passing through Manhattan a number of years ago, and two women to his side listened and laughed.

I was near the bottom of my second beer now, and it began to cloud my mind. The pours were big and the concoction was strong. My head became foggy, and Suzanne appeared beside me once again.

“Julian,” she said.

“Suzanne.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

So I did. Not everything, and not in depth, but I told her. How I left a job I hated in New York and drove three days out here. That I was staying in Boulder, on Anthony’s couch—I motioned toward him as I said it. He was engaged in conversation with a flannel-clad couple. I told her how I was trying to figure out what to do next.

“Will you stay?” she asked.

“Maybe. I like it here.”

“You must,” she said. “You simply must. It was fate that brought you here.”

I said nothing. I was confused, but the way she spoke was captivating. One notch from the deep end, but her cadence had a rhythmic quality, and her flowery words put me in a trance. There was no one like this in New York, even Brooklyn, no matter how hard they tried.

“There is a home for you here, I can sense it,” she said. “I can feel it. Already I can tell. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, and nodded, because I didn’t, but I wanted to. Then I asked her about herself, and she shook her head.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. There was a small golden locket around her neck, hanging down to the top of her tank top. “I’m just Miss Suzanne, the belle of the mountains, and that’s all you need to know.”

I nodded, but I didn’t know why. “So you live in Boulder?” I asked.

She shook her head again. “Oh no. No, we’re just down for a soiree, shall we say.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand that covered the whole group. “We come down from time to time.”

“Down?”

She giggled. “Yes, from the mountains, Julian.”

Anthony appeared beside me. “You two enjoying yourselves?” he asked.

“Very much, Anthony,” she said, delicately. “We very much are. But it looks like you gentlemen need another round.”

“Would love to,” he said, “but we gotta split.”

Suzanne looked at him, then me. “Is this true?”

I glanced at Anthony, who wore a stern, matter-of-fact look. He nodded at me.

“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” I said. “It was great meeting you.”

“Yes,” Anthony said, “it was a pleasure, Suzanne. Thank you for the beers.”

She frowned. “Very well then. The pleasure was all mine.” She turned to me just slightly. “I do hope to see you again.”

She handed me a napkin with something written on it, and we walked out the front door.

7

“I would’ve left you,” Anthony said in the car, “but you’re still married. Remember?”

I scoffed. “You think I was actually interested?”

“Couple more of those Belgians, interest isn’t so hard to come by.”

“No,” I said. “No. Nothing wrong with being social.”

The oncoming headlights reflected off the windshield.

“She was weird,” I said.

“She was,” he said.

“Interesting though.”

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

“Well, I wasn’t interested, but she was interesting. Like, the way she was. The way she talked.”

“Yeah, an odd duck,” he said. “That’s Boulder for you.”

“She said she wasn’t from Boulder.”

“No?”

“No. She just said, ‘the mountains.’ What does that mean?”

“Could mean a lot of things. That’s all she said?”

“Yeah.”

“Just means west. Up I-70 probably. Breck or Silverthorne or Avon or something.”

These were words with which I was unfamiliar.

“She sure liked you,” he said.

“I think she just liked anything.”

He shrugged. “Think what you want.”

We returned to Anthony’s house and I again lay down on his couch to sleep, and when I did I thought of her. I thought of Suzanne, and the way she was, and what it represented, and whether it meant anything. I thought of her friends, the friendly group of outcasts that were so quick to welcome us in their circle, at least for the evening. I thought of the beer we drank, cloudy and strong, and how I wanted another. I thought of the tap room we stood in, the smell of brewing, the crowd I never met, and the rustic décor. But mostly, I thought of her.