I nursed my drink until all the ice melted, remembering Clémence as a child, her determined nature that was so obvious even during just those few visits allowed by Jean-Baptiste. Just a few short days after I pulled her from the waters of the Seine, I spotted her with her parents at a park and snapped her picture from a distance. I can't be sure, but as I turned to leave, I could have sworn she looked at me and gave me a small smile. Then another time, I saw her at her school, my volant spirit hovering high overhead, seeing her on the playground. She pushed down an older boy who was bullying a classmate.

"You leave him alone!" she had shouted, her babyish voice almost frightening in its insistence. She barreled into the older child with all the force her tiny preschooler's body could muster. She had to be pulled away and lectured to by a teacher but looked unphased. On the last visit I was allowed, I spied her out walking with her parents, on that same bridge from which she had fallen, but this time, her mother kept a firm grasp of her daughter's hand. After that, I let her go, not thinking of her again. It was purely coincidence that our paths ever crossed again.

Three years ago, I was in Crucifie, much as I was tonight, trying to relax after several hours of painting. I was frustrated that I couldn't quite capture what I wanted on my canvas, so I had dismissed my model and headed to the club for a drink and a distraction. I must still have been visibly frustrated because a lovely girl walking past me as I sat at the bar stopped when she saw my face and commented on my expression.

"Oh, my," she said with playful concern. "Such handsome features should not be marred by such a mean-looking scowl! What's the trouble?"

When I looked up from my glass to see a pretty, heart-shaped face with an expertly stained Cupid 's bow mouth and wide, chocolate eyes, I immediately rearranged my features into a welcoming smile. Of all the possible coping techniques for work frustration, flirting with a pretty girl was definitely my favorite.

We struck up a conversation. She was bubbly, flirty, and fun (all of my favorite things). Her name was Amelie Michele. When a variant of "What's a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?" came up, she told me that she had a twin sister, Chantal (twins!) who played in a band. Chantal had come by to make some final arrangements for an upcoming gig with the bar's owner and Amelie had tagged along. We discussed the band a bit and Amelie invited me to come to their show the following Friday.

"It's a date," I told her, feeling definitely more upbeat.

Friday arrived in no time. I convinced Ambrose to come with me to the club to see Amelie's sister's band. Actually, all it took was two words.

"Dude, twins."

"I'm in!" Ambrose said, even though he was more of a blues fan and Amelie had described her sister's band as "punk." At least Ambrose wasn't as opinionated about music as Vince, so I knew he could manage to have a good time no matter how bad the band ended up being.

As it turned out, though, the band was pretty good, and as it was comprised completely of beautiful girls, it rose even further in our esteem.

"Bonus," Ambrose declared when he realized the band's makeup.

"Agreed."

We arrived about twenty minutes into the set and I introduced Amelie to Ambrose. They hit it off and soon, we were all dancing to some pretty hard-driving yet melodic punk music. I was panting by the end of the song and indicated to Ambrose that I was going to get a drink.

"Amelie, what would you like?" I asked before departing the dance floor.

"Oh, just a club soda, Jules. Thanks!" the perky girl answered. "Ambrose, don't think you're leaving me, though!"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with mock gravity. "I'm at your service!"

The two began dancing to the next song as I made my way toward the bar. While I waited for the drinks, I turned and leaned back against the bar, watching the band. Amelie's sister was obviously the bassist because she looked exactly like her vivacious sister, save for some dyed pink streaks mixed in her dark, curly hair. The other two girls were unknown to me. The drummer, a tall, thin girl with cocoa skin and a gothic cross tattoo on her right bicep looked like a runway model. The lead singer (also guitar player) was the drummer's polar opposite. She was petite, blonde, and fair. She looked like a real-life version of Tinkerbell. She even seemed to be wearing the punk version of a little girl's fairy costume: tulle tutu done in black, black and white striped tights that called to mind Alice in Wonderland, and platform wedged combat boots that made her appear somewhat taller than she was. Everything about her was just… pretty. Even her voice was pretty; almost too pretty to be punk.

I took the drinks back to our table and caught Amelie's attention, raising her glass to let her know I had her beverage. She smiled at me and gave me two thumbs up then continued bouncing around the dance floor with my friend. She was very cute and seemed to have lots of energy, the perfect pick-me-up for the trying week I'd had. I wasn't quite sure that I wasn't about to loser her to my revenant companion, though, but I figured it was of little consequence—another one just like her was about twenty feet away.

Even though he wasn't there, I knew exactly what Vince would think of that sentiment. He would call me callous. Maybe he would even say I was a womanizer. I preferred to think of it as flexible. I never promised more than I could give. I never got my own feelings hurt and I always made sure that whoever I was with had fun. If there was one thing this unnatural long life had taught me, it was that if you weren't having fun, then there was no point of doing it.

Ambrose and Amelie crashed into chairs next to mine, hot and winded. Amelie took a long gulp of her club soda, smiling at me gratefully. I pushed a glass of water towards Ambrose, also known as Mr.-my-body-is-a-temple-so-don't-pollute-it-with-alcohol, then continued sipping my own bourbon and soda.

"What do you think of the band?" Amelie asked us after she had quenched her thirst.

"Awesome!" Ambrose effused. I assumed that he was happy to have a music he could move to, so that this outing counted as exercise.

"I really like them," I agreed. "I just think it's strange how pretty the lead singer's voice is. She has this great chest voice and a growl when she's doing that punk-scream thing, but she she's singing softly, it's just so clear and perfect. I like it, but it's not what I expected."

"Yeah, Clémence said basically the same thing the other day," Amelie replied.

"Clémence?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's her name. The lead singer," she clarified. "She said she was going to start smoking so she would sound better."

"That's crazy!" Ambrose declared. I had to agree.

"Maybe," Amelie allowed, "but that's Clémence. You can't say she's not dedicated to her craft."

"I guess," Ambrose replied doubtfully.

Later, when the band took a break, Amelie jumped up and grabbed both our hands.

"Come on!" she said enthusiastically. "I'll introduce you!"

We trailed along behind her to the stage where the girls were chatting about the set. Amelie hugged her sister and the other girls in turn, then began introductions.

"Boys, this is my sister Chantal," she said, indicating the girl who looked almost exactly like her.

"It's a pleasure, Chantal," I greeted as Ambrose nodded.

"This gorgeous drummer here is Mathilde Moreau," Amelie continued.

"Hi, boys," Mathilde said, winking. Her voice was sultry and she was simply stunning up close. I wondered how long it would take Ambrose to get her number. I would have liked to have had it myself, but it seemed rude to consider it since I was there at Amelie's invitation.

"And this lovely girl is my best friend, Clémence Durand," Amelie finished.

I heard the name and a memory came rushing back. Clémence Durand. But surely it couldn't be…

"No," I thought to myself. "It's not an uncommon name."

But then she turned around and looked at me with those unmistakable crystal blue eyes and I knew that it really was her.

"Clémence," I greeted simply, betraying nothing, but my heart was pounding, waiting to see if she would show any spark of recognition.

Clémence nodded at me and then at Ambrose, showing us a quick, shy smile, but she said nothing and gave no indication that she remembered me. She had been very young, and it had been fifteen years. There was no reason to believe she would really recognize me. Even if I did look somehow familiar to her, logic would tell her I just reminded her of someone, not that I was that someone. Memory is a tricky thing, existing as both truth and falsehood; stark details and hazy creation; subjective, worn thin and mutated with time. This was especially true of the memories of a child.

The moment passed without Clémence screaming, "You're the one who saved me! Why haven't you aged in the last decade and a half?" and I relaxed, grateful for the faultiness of human memory. Some people do remember things from that age, but many more do not. Or, they think they do but what they believe to be memory is actually some oft-repeated tale, a family legend from which they draw their knowledge, merely calling it memory.

Ambrose and I complimented the girls on the show so far and after a few more minutes of pleasant chat, they retook the stage and started up again. It was strange, but as I watched a grown-up Clémence on the stage, I felt a sort of attachment like I had never experienced before. It wasn't the obsessiveness that Jean-Baptiste warned us against. This was something different. It felt very human. I think most people refer to it as "chemistry." Whatever term applied, I left Crucifie that night with the strong sense that Clémence Durand and I were destined to be great friends.