Free Adulation by Elisa Lorello

pack tucked in the inner pocket of his sport jacket, and lit up. Theweather was mild for October, yet the air was still crisp and breezy, and he pulled his jacket closed bygrabbing the lapels and folding his arms as he flicked ashes onto the sidewalk. The sun seemed poised forsetting, as if waiting for some director to call, “Action,” although it was still bright enough to wish he waswearing shades.
    He took a long drag from the cigarette and felt the absence of a drink in his hand. Funny that afterfifteen years of sobriety, the physical ritual still left a nagging impression on him—the way he balancedthe cigarette between his fingers in the same hand that held a thick, sturdy scotch glass or a bottle of beer. He loved that pose, actually. To him, that little bit of body language was the essence of cool. It made himfeel five inches taller, ten times better looking, and fifty times more like a rock star.
    The absence of it, however, only reminded him what he really was: a recovering alcoholic writer. Not that that was a bad thing. Just...ordinary. And sobering.
    He’d taken another long drag and exhaled just as a woman turned the corner and walked right intothe line of smoke. She halted her hurried pace and coughed.
    He took her in, head to toe, in one fleeting look. And she took his breath away in an instant,without warning or reason.
    “So sorry about that,” said Danny.
    “Oh, that’s OK,” she said as her eyes registered recognition of him. It caught her off guard, hecould tell. Her eyes widened a little and she tried to harness a smile. “I was, um...I’m just looking for a

    restroom.”
    She was perhaps an inch or two shorter than he, her hair the color of light-brown sugar, withhighlights. Her skin—soft and smooth, polished like a gemstone—was slightly olive-toned. Her eyeswere round, irises the color of azure, lashes long and thick and dark. She seemed youthful despite the hintof crow’s feet, but tired underneath what had to be a professional makeup job. He’d seen enough photoshoots to recognize one. Or perhaps she was a makeup artist by trade.
    Nevertheless, she had appeared, just like that.
    Danny dropped the half-smoked cigarette and stamped it out with his foot.
    “That’s the back door to the theater,” he said, pointing to the entrance behind him. “Do you want tosee if I can let you in?”
    “Oh. No, thanks. I’m sure there’s one at the deli down the street or something.” Her voice soundedslightly raspy.
    He extended his hand. “I’m Danny.”
    “Yes, hi,” she said shyly, hesitating before taking his hand. “Sorry, I’ve just gotten over a cold. Iwouldn’t want to pass it on to you.”
    “That’s OK,” he said, taking her hand anyway and shaking lightly as his heart pounded. Somethingmade him want to keep holding it. It was recently manicured,  but the skin on her fingertips was dry, andthis time he guessed she performed some kind of manual labor for a living, perhaps as a cook.
    She seemed to let go with just as much reluctance as he, despite her concern about beingcontagious. “I’m here for the premiere tonight,” she said.
    He grinned and turned slightly to avoid the beam of falling sunlight bouncing off the skyscraperacross the street. “That’s great. I hope you like it.”
    “I’m sure I will.” She looked at the flattened cigarette butt on the ground. “I didn’t know you stillsmoked,” she said, and before he could respond, she followed with, “That was rude. I’m sorry.”
    Danny was amused rather than offended. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m down to just one or two a day,usually in stressful situations,” he lied.
    “Have you had a stressful day?”
    He looked at his watch. “This is the first break I’ve had all day. I flew in from LA yesterday andhaven’t had a moment to myself since.”
    “Me neither, come to think of it. My friends and I came in yesterday, and we’ve been practicallyglued at the hip until now.”
    “From