I'll Be Here All Week by Anderson Ward

familiar feeling hits him all of a sudden, and he chuckles to himself. It’s awkward at first because he knows this feeling but doesn’t normally have it when he’s sitting at a bar having drinks. It’s normally the feeling he gets when he’s standing onstage. Now he’s getting it while sitting on this stool, talking with Sam. He’s comfortable.
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    The time gets away from him. Beer and women have that effect. Out of nowhere it’s two a.m. and the bar is closed. Before he knows what happens next, he’s on the street next to the pub and saying good night to Sam in the freezing cold. He tries, but he can’t remember the last time he did this and just said good night on the street and walked home. Or the last time he didn’t try to push some girl out of his hotel room after lying his way into bed with her.
    He thinks Sam is beautiful. He likes listening to her talk (he normally likes the sound of his own voice too much to listen to anyone else), but he can’t imagine asking her back to his room. Ending it here seems oddly more appropriate. He likes himself more when he doesn’t feel as if he’s just being a horny toad.
    â€œYou wanna come see my show?” Spence asks, and puts an arm around her waist. He’s afraid she’ll back away, but she doesn’t. She responds by doing the same and rests her hand on the top of his Gap jeans. It feels right. It doesn’t even feel new.
    â€œTomorrow night?” she asks.
    He nods. “I can put you on my guest list.”
    â€œSure,” she says. “Just don’t put me in the front row.”
    â€œNever,” Spence says. He wouldn’t want that, either. It’s hard enough to perform when someone he knows is watching the show. It’s the only time he ever really gets nervous onstage. Being able to see them four feet in front of him is even worse. It’s like being sent by Rodney to a bad Broadway audition.
    â€œOkay,” she says. “But I mean it. No front row. I don’t want you heckling me.”
    â€œIt doesn’t work that way,” he says. “The audience heckles the comic. The comic doesn’t heckle the audience.”
    â€œSame difference,” she says.
    â€œHow do you figure?”
    â€œLook,” she huffs, “I don’t tell you that the way you fold your pants is all wrong, so don’t tell me when I screw up your comedian lingo. Got it?”
    â€œFair enough,” he says.
    He leans in and kisses her. It’s quick and it’s sweet. It’s not at all the drunken make-out session that more than a few of his recent nights have ended with. It’s a change of pace, but he likes it. She smells good, and her lips are soft. He wants to stay there for about a year.
    â€œTomorrow then?” she says into his ear. He can feel her breath on his skin, and the hairs on his neck stand up when she speaks.
    â€œI hope so,” he says.
    Five seconds later and she’s gone. She walks in one direction while he heads the opposite way. Somewhere in a cab, Marcus is probably trying not to pass out or puke or both. Sam walks with Claudia and hopefully talks about the nice guy she talked to all night long. Claudia hopefully has his back and tells Sam she must go to his show tomorrow night.
    Spence turns the corner on Saint Catherine and starts walking toward his hotel. He’s freezing, but he doesn’t button his coat. He doesn’t even pay attention to the cold as it pierces through the buttons on his shirt. He’s alone, but he really likes it. He thinks that this must be what it feels like to walk with a skip in his step. There are people on the street, but he only hears the cold wind in his ears. He smiles and, for once, enjoys the sound of nothing.

6
    Spence taps at his laptop, checking his bank account online. Not having an apartment anymore was supposed to save him a ton of money, but he hardly sees it. His expenses