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Why am I here?

Here was a seedy bar in get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here Maine. I'd hated all four years, but the advent of my tenth high school reunion had me returning to my small town like a swallow to Capistrano. There wasn't enough Facebook stalking on the planet to feed my schadenfreude-fueled fantasies about how much better my life was than the hicks I'd left behind.

I certainly hadn't come back to spend time with my mother. They say that the mother-daughter bond improves once the daughter ages out of being a difficult teenager, but we'd certainly done our best to disprove that theory.

Why am I here?

Right, because after another round of accusations thrown back and forth, I'd left the house and begun to drive aimlessly. Nothing else was open. And the allure of a glass of wine, even a piss-poor one, had been overpowering.

Was avoiding my mother worth bleeding from my eardrums? Either way, more alcohol was going to be necessary.

This part of Maine is littered with dead zones. No scrolling on Twitter, no updating Facebook, no bitching on Whatsapp or Messenger. I tried to brace myself for misguided attempts at country, screaming rock lyrics, and unfortunate attempts at the current pop hits. I imagined they'd make a charming counterpoint Yalova Escort to the various sounds made when one's mouth is so close to a microphone that one might as well be fellating it.

I decided to ignore the impending cacophony and read a thriller I'd downloaded to my phone before beginning the trek north. It was topping the New York Times Bestseller List, not that anyone in this room had likely ever read the Gray Lady.

My head snapped up when I heard the opening notes of "The Impossible Dream," from Man of LaMancha. Broadway? Here?

To dream the impossible dream/To fight the unbeatable foe/To bear with unbearable sorrow/To run where the brave dare not go...

The room didn't appreciate the scene that was unfolding in front of them. A baritone with perfect pitch.

To right the unrightable wrong/ To love pure and chaste from afar/ To try when your arms are too weary/ To reach the unreachable star

He wore the same flannel and work boots as the other men. This was no fellow city slicker home for the holidays, or if he were, he was far better at blending than I.

The audience continued to talk amongst themselves. He sang on, unaffected by their disinterest.

This is my quest/ To follow that star/ Yalova Escort Bayan No matter how hopeless/ No matter how far

Our eyes met, and held.

To fight for the right/ Without question or pause/ To be willing to march into Hell/ For a heavenly cause

I abandoned my drink, drifting closer to the chunk of floor with the masking tape denoting the "stage."

And I know if I'll only be true / To this glorious quest/ That my heart will lie peaceful and calm/ When I'm laid to my rest

I mouthed the words along with him.

And the world will be better for this/ That one man, scorned and covered with scars/ Still strove with his last ounce of courage/ To reach the unreachable star

At the key change, a shiver whispered over my skin.

This is my quest/ To follow that star/ No matter how hopeless/ No matter how far

He was singing to me now.

To fight for the right/ Without question or pause/ To be willing to march into Hell/ For a heavenly cause

The world shrank down to the two of us.

And I know if I'll only be true / To this glorious quest/ That my heart will lie peaceful and calm/ When I'm laid to my rest

I yearned. Every note seared my soul.

And the world will Escort Yalova be better for this/ That one man, scorned and covered with scars/ Still strove with his last ounce of courage

Beneath the music, he was propositioning me.

To reach the unreachable star

He belted the final note. I nodded my answer.

The anemic applause barely registered as he took my hand and led me through the bar and out into the chilly night. For once, I didn't have a snarky comment to make about pick-up trucks.

The door clanked shut. He didn't bother to turn on the engine.

I heard the zing of a zipper, and he yanked me to straddle his lap. Rough fingers reached under my skirt and tore my panties, the rip echoing in the cabin. With one thrust he entered me and I rode him like the cowgirl my family would've probably preferred to an MBA.

Our groans harmonized. My pleasure spiraled up into an operatic soprano note of joy. Several seconds later, his baritone fell into a long bass note as he came.

The seduction spell woven through song shattered when he spoke.

"I can't believe I just fucked Wendy Adams."

I never knew a nine-hour drive could double as the longest walk of shame of my life. I still don't know who he was. I swear upon the holiest of holies-the Louboutin boots upon which I blew my savings rather than therapy-I will never google my high school reunion, because I don't want to know.

Maybe my mother was right after all. Stick your nose high enough in air and you'll trip over your feet.