Jazzy had gone jogging that afternoon, and "jogging" was a generous word. After twenty honest minutes she collapsed onto a park bench with a huge milkshake and a sprinkled donut. Calorie neutral, she decided. Science.

On the way home she walked straight into a man carrying coffee, and her milkshake went straight onto his sneakers.

"I'm so sorry! That was a perfectly good milkshake and now it's a perfectly bad shoe situation."

He just laughed. "Best thing that's happened to me all week. I'm Daniel."

An hour later they were still talking by the fountain. "Do you sing?" he asked.

"Only in the shower, when I'm sad, or when I'm showing off."

"Which one is it today?"

"Showing off."

"There's a karaoke bar on Fifth Street. Private rooms. Friday night."

"I'll bring the outfit," she said.

Friday, the door of the private room clicked shut, and the bar noise shrank to a muffled bass line. Blue neon, a glowing lyrics screen, a black leather couch.

"You're sure about this?" Daniel asked.

"Daniel, I booked the room and wore the good corset. I'm committed." She tapped the microphone and winced. "That's the most professional I'll be all night."

The purple skirt swished, the garter straps peeked out above her stockings, and the corset made breathing a conscious choice. When the music started, she spun, nearly lost a heel, recovered with a dramatic hair flip, and winked as if she'd planned it.

She sang every word to him. Every cheesy line sounded like a confession. I want this man so badly it almost hurts, she thought. Rude of him, really.

When the last note faded, she bowed and almost fell over.

"Review?"

"I forgot my own name around the second chorus," he said.