Kris didn’t know where he was traveling to. He knew it was somewhere in Europe, but he needed to glance down at his plane ticket to find the exact location every time the destination escaped him. DUBLIN. What the fuck is wrong with my memory? He knew, though, that it wasn’t really his memory ¾ it was the circumstances of his life that were making him forget.

At 6:06 pm, he walked along a tarmac in Winnipeg, Canada, to catch a connection. An all-consuming blackness belted his view; the glimmer of aircraft lights like an interruption. A wraithlike wind slashed through his shirt and he swore from the hurt of it. His agent had got the airline to hold the plane for him after he was late coming in from Vegas because he was supposed to play a gig with the band the next day. He didn’t even know where to find Winnipeg on a map. All he knew was that it was fucking cold in Canada in February and he couldn’t wait until he was deep in the air and could forget he’d ever been here.

A stewardess had greeted him at the entrance of the plane, nodding her pointed chin and giving him an infomercial smile before checking his ticket. Briefly, he tried to imagine what it might be like to slip his tongue into her mouth and if she might make him hard, but nothing stirred in him. He felt completely unmoved.

“Welcome aboard,” she said. Her flat eyes regarded him suspiciously.

He wasn’t too much to look at now, he knew. He’d seen himself in the bathroom mirror at the airport before he got on the plane. Red veins marked the whites of his eyes and his greying hair needed a cut and his sweat-stained shirt needed a wash. He got too high last night on edibles and drank too much and the bourbon was probably weeping from his pores, but he couldn’t smell himself the way others could, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or something to be feared.

There was no fear in him now, though, even though he was alone. Kris felt alone a lot lately. He usually felt most alone on travel days because the high of whatever gig he had played would have worn off by then. The aftermath leaving him with a brutal, shaky, low. And travel, usually done in the afternoons, when the sun was at its cruelest, forced him to see himself as part of the broader world. Something he didn’t realize he tried to avoid whenever he could.

But tonight, he didn’t feel that way at all. Maybe it was because of the urgency of the flight and the excitement that he might miss the gig if he didn’t land on time. Or maybe being truly alone, without the men, whom he loved in his own limited way, was freeing. Because sometimes, they made him uncomfortable in the daylight. The lines in their face too jarring. The darkness in their eyes too frightening. They looked like him, he knew, and sometimes the knowledge of that was awful.

That morning, the rest of the band had gotten the last seats on another flight and Kris said he was fine to fly solo. He’d been on tour for the past thirty years and he learned that his best shot at making the most of it was to be passive and let things happen to him instead of because of him. Whenever he did something with purpose, it always seems to bite him in the ass. But if he sat back and let it all happen, then he had a chance at being happy at least for an instant. On tour, there was always someone ready to light a joint or pass him a beer or adjust his sound in the monitors or hand him a sharpie to sign an autograph. Even the shows followed a script that he’d been written into – the notes from his guitar no longer flowed from any kind of spontaneity. The magic, he’d found out, was never really there even when he thought it was. Lately, he’d realized it wasn’t about the music or the fans or the temporary fame. It was always the money.

He checked his boarding pass. 16B. Breath escaped his nose. No room in business class. The stale air attacked him with the scent of sweat and bad breath. The plane had been on the tarmac for a while and those little fans didn’t stand a chance against a full flight. He wondered about his guitar, stowed in the underbelly of the plane, strings loosened while he muttered a Hail Mary before giving it up to a guy with a frosted beard and the kind of hollow gaze particular to old men. The frightening night had begun to scatter clots of snow and Kris hadn’t wanted to hand off his instrument. The man’s gloves touched Kris’ bare knuckle and he was off-put by the closeness. He had snatched his hand away and watched as the man carried his guitar with two hands instead of one. No respect.

He walked past rows of ugly people with their open laptops or newspapers. He’d always noticed that about airports: everyone always seemed ugly on travel days. And he found that his seat wasn’t empty. There was a violet purse on it, with half-spilled contents; a silver tube of lipstick, a notebook with a smiley face, a bunch of used Kleenexes. He stared at it for a moment, unsure what to do. He hadn’t even thought to look at who was sitting next to it. Suddenly, a hand reached out to snatch it and he turned his attention toward the whole person who let out a nervous laugh.

“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “I should’ve known someone would be sitting here.”

He stood there stupidly, paralyzed for a moment. Not that she was particularly pretty, but there was something in the quality of her voice that he couldn’t place. The sound of it made him feel like he was in bed, with the comfort of a hotel duvet around him and the quiet hum of the air conditioner muffling the insufferable silence. This girl wasn’t silence. She smiled at him with small, square teeth.

He sat down beside her and thrust his bag under the seat in front of him. His shoes were wet from the snow and a stain bled into carpet. The scent of hand sanitizer and lilac wafted toward him. Again, he wondered what he must smell like. He thought back to his reflection in the airport’s bathroom mirror and his red-rimmed eyes and flat hair. He leaned slightly away from her, this creature that startled him.

The girl took a pack of mints from her purse. He heard her crunch into the mint and her noisy swallow.

“Want one?” she asked. He accepted, even though his impulse was to decline. Their skin was the same colour, he noticed, a light brown, but where his fingers were long and thick and calloused, her fingers were unblemished and small, almost like a child’s. He ate the mint without liking it.

“Are you the reason they held up the plane?” she asked.

Her eyes were bright but neutral. He didn’t know if she was curious or if she was just making conversation. The type of person who was friendly, chatty. The type he normally hated.

“I guess,” he said.

A voice boomed through the overhead speakers. Cabin Crew, please be seated for take-off.

He felt her stare at the tattoo of the doe on his forearm. He’d gotten it when he was seventeen after a girlfriend had urged him on. Bambi was her favourite movie and a deer was “unexpected” and because it was unexpected, it was desirable. And honestly, he loved the deer on his arm. Its wideset eyes seemed to take in everything. And his ex was right – it helped get him laid a bunch.

The woman interrupted his thoughts. “You must be a pretty big deal if they were willing to wait around for one person,” she said.

He shrugged. “Anyone’s a big enough deal if they know the right person.”

The plane began to lift. Wind hissed and Kris’ stomach contracted.

“You’re an actor?”

“An actor?” He shook his head. “No, definitely not.”

She laughed. “Bad guess. But you’re something. You’re not normal.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Ember.”

“Amber?” “No, Ember.” She closed her eyes and pressed her back against her chair. She wore fake, fanned lashes, too large for her small eyes. Ember. What a shit name, he thought.

“I know,” she declared, suddenly. Her eyes flared open. “You’re a musician,” she accused.

He tried to smile. “I play guitar.” For the first time, he thought it sounded lame.

She turned away from him. Initially, he had thought she was young, but the harsh overhead lights suggested otherwise; there were faint grooves in her forehead and a few wiry grey hairs sprung at her temples. “I was hoping you were a singer,” she said.

He’d never heard that before. When women found out he was a guitarist they usually thought it was great. He felt an urge to explain himself, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Good voices are rare,” he said. “I could never be a singer, but I knew I could be a player.”

With her eyes closed, she smiled. “I like that idea,” she said.

“What idea?”

“Knowing your limitations.”

He liked what she said but he didn’t understand it. He’d never thought of what he couldn’t do as a limitation. It was just reality.

She said, “Did I offend you?” but her eyes teased. “Tell me your story.” Her elbow perched on the rim of the window and her head rested on her fist.

Dark brown eyes, he noticed. But they’re not warm. They’re cool.

He wanted to talk to her even though he wasn’t sure what to make of her. She had drawn him in and he couldn’t unravel himself from whatever line she had cast. So he told her some of the tired highlights of his life, about touring from the time he was eighteen. He had a fake ID and two parents who loved him back home in Iowa, but who he needed to get rid of. He was a decent soloist, but really he was better at making other musicians sound good. He rarely took centre stage. This was the trick, he’d soon learn. People kept him around because he had the chops to make them sound good.

“Touring,” he said to Ember, “is kind of like a drug. You’re in a stupor half the time, even though you might not be high. It’s like watching the world from inside a hamster wheel: pack up, unload, play, pack up, sleep, drive, repeat. I’ve met so many people on the road, but honest to god the faces have all just bled into each other. You know what you learn though? People need their heroes, even if their heroes are massive disappointments. I’m sure I’ve disappointed many a fan.”

He told her he almost got married once, to a woman who had documented a full year of touring on an old camera that she claimed was going to make her rich. But when she’d developed the pictures, she’d burst into tears; it’s just too sad, she’d told him as she wiped her snotty nose on his shirt. He didn’t know what she was talking about. The pictures showed the band as it was: sleeping on the tour bus, mouths half-open; crying drunk after a particularly epic show; playing video games during the day with some Pedialyte and coffee to get them through the worst of their mornings. The truth wasn’t sad. It was just the truth. He told Ember that the girlfriend left him not long after and last he heard she was living in a commune in Costa Rica.

And he realized he hadn’t talked to a woman like this in a long time, a year or two maybe. Slept with plenty of them, sure. But talked? Talking doesn’t count when you’re trying to get laid. It’s just lies to get someone to agree to take their clothes off. Ember made him want to reveal a bit of himself bit by bit.

When they braced for landing, he realized he didn’t know a thing about her.

“Do you want to come to the show tomorrow?” he asked. “I can leave a ticket for you at the stand.”

She looked down at her phone and he wondered if she heard him. But then she smiled crookedly and said, “Yeah. Why not?”

He played well that night. There was extra adrenaline because he’d missed soundcheck from oversleeping and arrived with only minutes to spare. The lights flashed red, blue, purple; the cry of the crowd an ominous thrum in the backdrop. He thought of Ember briefly before he went onstage. He wouldn’t be able to make her out in the crowd – she’d be a particle in the stands. But he played for her, he realized later. He hadn’t felt that electric in years. Afterward, she texted him. Great set! Where r u?

They met up at his bandmate’s hotel room. A party. A good time. She wore a mini skirt and a grey sweater and she looked neither young nor old because she had the hands of a child but the cold wisdom of a woman and he felt a shudder run through him as he hugged her. In the room, he lit a joint and passed it to her. She took a deep inhale and left an imprint of her lip gloss where his mouth had been. The smoke curled at her lip, her eyes half-closed, as if in meditation. He stood close to her so that they were almost touching, but they probably looked more like friends to the outside, side-by-side but apart. There were lots of people there he didn’t know. In the corner of the room, his singer was snorting cocaine with a teenager. The teen had silvery glitter in her hair and a crop top that exposed a slightly sloped belly. On the bed, a bunch of guys were watching a UFC rerun and a stranger was screaming “cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker!” at the screen, cheeks hot, spittle flying from his mouth. Someone else yelled “let’s get dirty!” and a woman wobbled on her feet and began to take off her black T-shirt until her more-sober friend pulled it down again and whispered a few words in her ear. Someone changed the TV channel to porn  a woman on all fours moaned while a man with thick hands grabbed her neck from behind. Ember stiffened beside him. He looked away too, taking a final toke. He hated that stuff even though most guys he knew were into it. Someone would change the channel soon, though. That kind of stuff never lasted.

Ember said something to him but Kris couldn’t hear it so he just nodded politely, but then he heard her say loudly, “I said, can we go somewhere else?” Her eyes seemed sharp in the room that seemed so blurred and he took her hand and led her to the hallway where they walked in silence to his room.

When he opened the door, he hated himself. The room was too empty. The air too stiff. Too much peace when he wanted noise. But she’d asked him to leave and even though he’d thought of sex, he didn’t think to seduce her, and this was strange for him but he didn’t dwell on it; he just accepted it for what it was.

“Is it like that every night?” she asked.

“Like what?”

She sniffed. Her eyes focused on the undisturbed bed before she looked at him again. “Whatever that was. That scene.”

He was confused. No one had ever asked

after a job. Musicians especially. That was just a bunch of people relaxing.”

He hated the way she was looking at him. He wasn’t sure if it was pity or sadness or both. She took his hand and squeezed it. Her skin felt cold, almost frigid. Touching, their palms were dry.

“It was just…it was just a bit disturbing,” she whispered. Her eyes shone and he felt a deep thud in his throat, something crawling where it shouldn’t be. Disturbing?

“I thought you knew,” he said. “I thought you’d get it.” And there was something wet on his cheek and he wasn’t sure what it was for a moment until he realized that he was crying. And he had to snatch his hand away from the cold fingers because this wasn’t what was supposed to happen, not this night that was supposed to help him sustain a high and forget what needed forgetting. He moved past her and hit the wall with his fist with a crack, so angry that he was crying and that Ember was here to see it when all he wanted was a good time again tonight like all the other nights but she’s seen something in him and now he was just so fucking angry, so angry that he wanted to hit something again and again and again and he was hitting it again and again and again, and there was a wetness on his knuckles, dark trickles of blood and someone screaming at him in the background to stop! Please stop! And he did stop, then, his fist shredded and wounded. Ember was crying too, weeping, even, he would say. She took one step toward him and then another one and another one with her stockinged feet and her childish hand reached out to grab his own and she took her sweater sleeve and wiped him down so that red-stained grey and then her head was beneath his scruffy chin and he could smell jasmine in her hair and it was coarse beneath his chin but it was so sweet, the feeling of her under him and holding him at the same time.

He woke up the next day alone in his bed. No evidence of anyone else existed at all. He sniffed the pillow next to him, but it smelled only faintly of bleach, not of any perfume, not of anything human. Did he dream it? Was there a woman here who’d seen him to his bed and made him feel warm when he’d felt so empty? Maybe. I think so. He tried to remember her name. Emma? Amber? No, none of those were right. He’d forgotten. His hand was wrapped in a cut-up grey woolen rag hardened with blood. His head stuffy but blank. He knew he had to be somewhere today. London? Munich? Not a clue. He needed to check his boarding pass. He felt fine though, satiated. Last night must have been fun with whoever she was. A good time.