Loce Control.

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"Where's the love that people are talking about?"

she asked without waiting for a response. She always began with a dramatic statement alongside her characteristic theatrical entrance. "I think people confuse love with being seen," I said quietly, more to myself than to her. Our night hug quickly took an unexpected turn when she took my left hand and positioned it squarely on her hip,

"I would like them to believe that I belong to you."

She spoke and then noticed the annoyance of the two men by the corner table. They never glanced in her direction the entire night. She behaves unpredictably and owns the area around her with magnetic power. The mood changes whenever she enters the bar; all eyes are on her, and she does well under that attention. She never orders; instead, she demands innovation from me, something to match the night's mood. I returned with a Negroni; she sipped on it and mentioned it was always the same. She threw a handful of her rich, dark hair into the air, and her nipples stood proud beneath her shirt, unapologetic, almost part of the performance.

She knows the answers to most of her questions; she asks to test the temperature of the world around her. She doesn't seek and chase love; she provokes it, daring it to catch her and impress her. She wants love but on her own terms. On stage, with no script but all the feeling. “Would someone love you when you're not performing?” I asked. “Is that what you're really asking?” She didn’t look at me. I added, “I’m still figuring that out too.”

"I do not want to be figured out. Everyone wants answers, I don't. I want to lose control, and I am waiting to see who is bold enough to try".

I just made her second Negroni, always Negroni, sweet and bitter, predictable and unpredictable, familiar and full of surprises like her. She took a slow sip, her lips pressing against the rim of the glass like she was kissing a secret and then she raised the glass slowly.

''Cheers!Tonight, we don’t stay in control.”