Don T Make Me Wait 1980s -

The fog machine was working overtime, turning the dance floor into a purple-tinted swamp. Elias stood by the payphones, watching the heavy metal door. Every time it swung open, a burst of cool night air hit the humid room, but it was never her.

"The song is still playing," he said, holding out his hand. "Technically, you made it." Don T Make Me Wait 1980s

Elias had met Sarah three weeks ago at a record shop. They had both reached for the same imported 12-inch single. She had hair like a dark cloud and wore a lace glove on only one hand. She’d told him, “Meet me at the Zenith on the 24th. But don't make me wait. I hate waiting.” Now, he was the one waiting. The fog machine was working overtime, turning the

She was leaning against a dented Ford Escort, her lace glove gripping a sodden paper bag. Her hair was flat from the rain, and one of her heels had clearly snapped off, leaving her leaning at a precarious tilt. "The song is still playing," he said, holding out his hand

"Last call for the hustle," Miller shouted over the music, heading toward the bar. "You coming?"