Page 2 of In Another Time

“Icannot believe I let you talk me into this,” I said, glancing over at Sherelle as she weaved her car through the bustling downtown streets. I smoothed the hem of my blazer—a fitted navy number that I changed into after a quick shower following a long day at work. “I should be at home reviewing the quarterly projections for tomorrow’s meeting, not. . . whatever this is.”

“Lennox, for the love of God, relax,” Sherelle said with a laugh, tossing me a quick side-eye. “You’re thirty-four, not eighty-four. The world isn’t going to end if you miss one night of crunching numbers.”

I sighed and slouched back in my seat, though “slouching” for me meant tilting a few degrees off my usual perfect posture.“You say that now, but if I don’t have the answers ready for questions tomorrow, the world as I know it will end.”

Sherelle rolled her eyes. “Girl, you’re a VP. You’ve been at Crow & Carrington for, what, ten years? You could do that presentation in your sleep.”

“That’s exactly why I have to stay sharp,” I countered. “Because I’ve worked my ass off to get here. You know I’m the youngest VP in the firm’s history? Do you know how many late nights and sacrificed weekends it took to?—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Believe me, I’ve heard it all before,” Sherelle said, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. “You’ve done nothing but talk about work for years. Tonight is about unwinding, having fun, and maybe even meeting someone who’ll make you forget about spreadsheets for five minutes.”

I snorted. “Meeting someone? Please. The last thing I need is another man trying to ‘fix’ me because I’m too ambitious or ‘soften’ me because I’m too independent. No, thank you.”

Sherelle just laughed as she pulled into a parking space outside a small building with the words The Velvet Note glowing in soft golden letters above the entrance. The hum of jazz music spilled out as soon as she opened her car door.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the entrance.

The lounge was warm and inviting, with low lighting that cast everything in a soft amber glow. The scent of aged bourbon and something faintly sweet lingered in the air. Tables were scattered throughout the room, each one illuminated by a single flickering candle. On one side of the space, a small stage was set up, complete with a vintage microphone and a stool.

“This is cute,” I admitted reluctantly as Sherelle led us to a table near the back.

“See? Told you,” she said, flashing a triumphant grin.

A waitress appeared to take our drink orders—red wine for me, something fruity for Sherelle—and I settled into my chair, feeling slightly more at ease but still itching to check my email.

“Just breathe, Lenny,” Sherelle said, as if reading my mind. “The world won’t fall apart while you’re here.”

I nodded but said nothing, my eyes wandering to the stage where a tall, muscular chocolate man adjusted the mic stand. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that were dusted with tattoos. His hair was cropped close, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that framed a strikingly handsome face.Well damn. . .

“Good evening, everyone,” he said, his deep voice commanding the room’s attention. “Welcome to The Velvet Note’s first open mic night. I’m Omir, the owner and also your host for the night. And, uh, I’m thrilled to have y’all here.”

The room erupted in applause, and I found myself lightly clapping along, though I couldn’t take my eyes off him. There was something about his presence—calm, confident, and just a little bit magnetic—that made it impossible to look away.

“This is an open mic night, so if you’ve got a poem, a story, or even just a few words you want to share, don’t be shy,” he continued. “The stage is yours.” He smiled then, and I swear it was like the whole room shifted slightly, leaning into him. “Now, I’ll kick things off with a little something of my own,” Omir said, taking the mic in one hand and leaning casually against the stool.

And then he began to speak. His voice was a melody all its own—smooth and rich, like the jazz music playing softly in the background. The words spilled from him like a stream of consciousness, raw and unfiltered.

“I don’t need much to survive,

Just the basics?—

Food, water, shelter. . .

But without you,

I’m suffocating.

You’re the air I pull into my lungs,

The invisible essence that keeps me alive.

I can’t see you,

But I feel you,

Pressing against my chest,

Whispering life into my weary bones.

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