It was for Dylan

You sat alone at the poker table long after the last guest had gone.

The house felt too quiet. Cards still lay scattered across the felt. Empty cans caught the low light from the side lamp. Every few minutes you checked your phone. No messages. No calls. Katie’s last words—breathless, promising they were right behind you—kept replaying in your head.

Eventually you stood and walked to the front window.

Brian’s house was only a few doors down. The lights were still on. That much you could see. But every curtain had been drawn, only shadows could be seen, and the thump of music was drifting down the street—louder than it had been when you left, heavy bass rolling under the night air.

You stared for a long time.

You stepped out onto your own porch.

The music was clearer now. Bass and muffled voices. Lights glowed behind every covered window. Katie must still be inside.

You stood in the cool night air, staring at the house a few doors down, while the party you thought had ended continued without you—doors closed, curtains drawn, and your wife still somewhere inside.

You stepped off your porch and started walking.

The music grew clearer with every step. Bass thumped against the closed curtains of Brian’s house. Shadows moved behind the drawn curtains. When you were only a couple of houses away a sudden, loud cheer erupted from inside—dozens of voices rising together in a single burst of excitement.

Then the song changed.

The opening brass of “The Stripper” blared through the walls, bright and unmistakable. Another round of cheers followed, louder this time, mixed with laughter and overlapping shouts of encouragement. Clapping started up in time with the beat. Someone wolf-whistled. A voice—male, indistinct—called out something that made the whole room laugh again.

You couldn’t tell who was stripping.

You only knew the entire remaining party was inside, cheering whoever it was on, while the curtains stayed tightly closed and the volume stayed high.

You walk to the front door and tried opening it.

The handle turned but the door didn’t open. Locked.

You knocked once, hard. The music and the cheering swallowed the sound. You knocked again, louder. No one came. Another swell of noise rose on the other side of the door as the song hit its swaggering chorus—more applause, more shouted encouragement, the clear energy of people watching a show.

You stood in front of the locked door of your old bully’s house, the same house you had left only hours earlier with the promise that Katie and Brian were “right behind you,” listening to the party continue without you and wondering whose clothes were coming off on the other side of the door.

You kept knocking.

The brass of “The Stripper” blared on the other side of the locked door, mixed with fresh cheers and laughter. You tried the handle again even though you already knew it wouldn’t give. Your free hand pulled your phone from your pocket.

Katie’s number.

You hit call and pressed the phone to your ear while your other fist banged against the door a second time.

It could be Chloe, you told yourself. Katie had already been naked earlier during the game. There was no reason for her to be the one stripping now. Chloe had been the one organising everything, the one who had kept the energy going all night. It made more sense that it would be her putting on a show.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.

The music and the cheering continued without pause. Someone inside shouted something crude that drew another burst of laughter. The beat of the song strutted on.

Third ring.

You knocked harder, phone still clamped to your ear.

Fourth ring.

Pick up. Just pick up and tell me you’re on your way home.

The call clicked through to voicemail. Katie’s recorded voice—calm, ordinary, from a different night entirely—asked you to leave a message. You ended the call and immediately hit redial.

Inside, the song reached its swaggering peak. The cheers rose with it. You stood knocking, phone ringing against your ear again, trying to convince yourself that the person peeling off clothes on the other side of the door was anyone except your wife.