The first time I saw Adele, it was at a dimly lit jizz bar in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. The air was thick with the scent of bourbon and sweat, the hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. She was perched on a velvet stool, her curves spilling over the edges of her emerald-green dress, her dark curls cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall of ink. A glass of whiskey dangled from her fingers, the ice cubes clinking softly as she brought it to her lips. I watched as she licked a drop of liquid courage from the rim, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path before she took a sip. The way her full lips wrapped around the glass, the way her throat worked as she swallowed—I felt a heat coil low in my belly.
I had to introduce myself.

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