Spring of 1996, the year everything started... I walk up the darkened stairs to the smoky bar,rye and ginger in my hand. The faint smell of piss wafts from the men's toilets. I slowly walk up to the darkened room with the blue and red laser light moving in an erratic pattern; the Alternitive bar I love so much is sweet relief from all the top-forty crap dance clubs that seem to litter my City... Except here, Barbie Girl is NOT playing. It's the sweet sound of Pulp's "Common People."

SHIT! My toe hits the last step. Dammit, these chunky heels and black apron skirt are doing me no favours. I right myself, look down, and my still full drink is still somehow in its glass and not all over the floor, or worse, me. WHEW! A small victory for my clumsy self. I scour the dance floor looking for my best friend Jazz. He loves Pulp and totally thinks he's the second Jarvis Cocker. I'd say he's doing a pretty fucking good job at it too with his tall lanky frame and brown corduroy suit.

It's Saturday night so that means it's "Brit Night" at Grind Machine. I usually dance with Jazz, but not tonight. Seems he's found himself a very pretty chickie. She's so freakin' tiny but cute, with her orange raver skirt and fried egg tee shirt. Her green nail polish looks to be the same as mine. Sweet. Hope she's not a bitch. Jazz is a big boy though, so I rarely interfere with his hookups.

God, I love Happy hour. Drinks are a buck 'til 11, so all of us are usually trashed by midnight. My drinks is somehow empty, so I order two more rye and gingers and down them. I know I'm binge drinking and a small part of me hates myself for doing that but, I need to be a little buzzed to dance in "the cage." It's so called because of the chain-link fence surrounding the dance floor.

Suddenly, the unmistakeable opening guitar to "Love Will Tear Us Apart" blares through the speakers. Ian Curtis's soulful voice almost breathes out as I start the slow dance swaying my hips to the music I get lost in the poetry of the lyrics. Ian Curtis's breathy soulful voice plucks a chord in my subconscious; my hips begin to slowly sway.

When routine bites hard,

and ambitions are low,

and resentment rides high,

but emotions won't grow,

and we're changing our ways,

taking different roads.

Then love, love will tear us apart again.

Love,love will tear us apart again.

I come out of my dance high only to feel as if I'm being watched. I turn around and see a tall, skinny guy with seriously fucked up hair. He's wearing black jeans and a worn out Dead Kennedys tee shirt, but it's as if he has saved his brilliantly green eyes for me last. I want him, now, tonight, 20 years from now. But instead of telling him this, I smirk and flip my glossed black bob at him.

I'm trying to look like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction, but I don't have her amazing large eyes. That's not to say mine are small, but definitely not Uma eyes. I turn my back to the lovely man and continue to dance, but my usual thoughts are not there. Instead I need to see his face again.

I turn to see if he's looking, but he's disappeared. My heart clenches. I'm done with dancing. I walk up to my favourite bartender in the whole wide world: Deb. She's older than all of us but no matter. She can still rock out her big curly hair and long red fingernails. She hands me two more rye and gingers. Haha! She knows what I like.

The feeling of being watched has come back. I turn around, only to see my friend Steph puke into his hand. Oh no! I roll my eyes. Another teary cab ride home for him. I contemplate how to get poor Steph out of the bar without too much of a scene.

Hot breath touches my right ear.

"Do you know who you look like?"

EPOV: Ah, I left London and for what? A bloody raining town. Alice did promise me we would go out and get shitfaced at some place called "Grind Machine" so that's where we are now. Of course, she's disappeared. Probably dancing with some git with black eyeliner and a shiny shirt. Thankfully, I fit in with my normal tee shirt and jeans.

I glance around the room. A tall slender brunette is wearing a long black skirt. And its got pockets on the bottom. Oh well. I won't pretend to know girl fashion. It's her thick-soled mary janes that catch my eye. With the massive heel, she's got to be at least 5"11 in them. I absolutely adore tall skinny girls. So what if they lack boobs? More than a handful is a waste, right? Their long legs make up for it in leaps and bounds. She looks delicious. Good enough to bite! Her big brown eyes scan the room.

I need to talk to her. For what seems to be the first time in my virgin loser life, I need to be inside a girl. No, not just any girl. I need her right the bloody hell NOW!

BPOV: I slowly turn to the voice. Ah it's him! tight black pants! MMMM, I could lick the side of his stubbly jaw all night. He has a slight English accent. Hot. I have no idea who I look like.

"No but I think you're going to tell me," I hear someone who sounds like me say.

Our eyes finally land on each other, my eyebrows raised above my bangs.

Just what the hell is going through this beautiful man's head, and why did it have to happen now? FUCK! After all that had happened to me.

He clears his throat and mumbles: "I think you look exactly like Louise Brooks."

"Oh! Um the silent film star? I loved 'Pandora's Box.'''

I blush because I feel like I'm rambling, even though it's been three sentences. The film geek in me surfaces once in awhile. Not that I am ashamed. Film is my life. If I couldn't be an actress I would write or direct. (I already have a line on a great Super8 in perfect working order.) My mind drifts back to the almost too-beautiful-for-words man standing front of me. His straight nose has exactly seven freckles. His pouty lips were begging me to attach my own lips to them. But again what got me were his eyes- they almost look day-glo in the weird bar lights. We stood there trying in vain to think of anything to say, staring at each other like a pair of idiots.

He lightly makes a move to hold my hand, gently caressing the top. I feel a fierce blush start to form.

Oh god, please tell me what he's thinking. I'll be good I promise! His slow lazy smile made my brain feel like champagne. I was totally in this creature's power.