Unexpected Melodies

    I sipped my shot of Maker’s, hoping the martini drinker to my left would finish his tale about his ex-wife and her lover twenty-five years her junior. From his complaints, I don’t really blame the wife for dumping him.
    While I unsuccessfully tried to tune him out, I wondered how I managed to attract so many lost dogs . . . from the homeless guy offering to buy my breakfast to the guy wearing a fuzzy green top hat to the ones who show me their scars (no matter the location) and photos of what caused the scars and x-rays of broken bones . . . you get the drift.
    The lost dogs don’t bother me near as much as the creeps who want to put their hands on me. One of these days I will lose what little cool I have and seriously injure one of them . . . came close a month or so ago to breaking one’s foot when he put his arm around my shoulders. Damn these guys who think they’re God’s gift to women.
    Enough griping. I should’ve known better than to show up at a bar during happy hour on a Thursday afternoon. 

    I’m down to my last sip of Maker’s when I hear, “Whatever she’s having,” in a deep voice to my right. I glance up at the mirror behind the bar and see a tall dark-haired man wearing a light blue button-down shirt and faded Levi’s. I notice his left sleeve is empty and pinned up, and I mentally groan. While I have sympathy for him, I don’t think I have the patience to listen to another sad tale right now.
    The barkeep sets a shot of Maker’s in front of him, and after a sip, he turns to me and says, “Good bourbon.”
    I nod in agreement and finish mine. As I turn my barstool in preparation to leave, he asks if I’m in a hurry.
    “No,” I reply. “Just finished my Maker’s.”
    “Would you consider staying a while longer?” He is turning the shot glass around as he asks this.
    “I could. Why?”
    “I’m going to be here a while and would like someone to talk to,” he replies.
    Oh, shit, I think. If I leave I’ll look like a total ass and if I stay, I’ll have to listen to his story. Generations of Southern hospitality insist that I be courteous.
    “Sure. I’ll stay a  bit.”

    I settle back onto the barstool, and consider ordering another Maker’s but decide Coke is a wiser choice. I take a sip of the Coke the barkeep sets in front of me while debating whether or not to introduce myself. My modicum of good manners steps in and I tell him, “I’m Ashleigh.”
    He says, “I’m Tim. Nice to meet you.”
    “You, too,” I reply.
    We sit there quietly, sipping our drinks, for a couple of minutes. I am wondering if he did want someone to talk to or just someone sitting beside him so he wouldn’t feel alone. I understand that feeling.
    “Are you from around here?” he finally asks.
    “No,” I tell him. “A couple of counties away. You?”
    “No. From across the state line,” he replies.

    We sip our drinks in silence another couple of minutes. I glance at the clock to the left of the bar . . . six-forty. Happy hour is over at seven. I can deal with twenty minutes of light conversation. If it stays light.
    He pushes the shot glass toward the back of the bar and shakes his head when the barkeep asks if he wants another one. That eases my thoughts as I’m pretty sure he won’t get drunk and expect a comforting conversation partner.
    He chuckles lightly. I look at him and see he is looking at me. Nice brown eyes.
    “A fine talk we’re having. Guess I wasn’t as in the mood for conversation as I thought.”
    I smile at him. “Doesn’t look that way.”
    “How about we discuss the weather?” he asks. “It does affect everyone in some way.”
    “Okay,” I reply. “How’s the weather suiting you today?”
    “It’s okay. I could use a little less rain,” he says, then grins at me. Killer grin.
    “Me, too. I’m ready for a dry day for yard work.”
    “I’ve got an apartment so I don’t have to do that. And that’s a good thing as I don’t like doing yard work.”
    “I’d rather do yard work than housework,” I tell him. “At least when I do that it’s done for a week instead of having to be done every day.”
    “Good point,” he says.

    The conversation drifts along aimlessly. A couple minutes before seven, he stands up, lays a ten on the bar, and says, “I’ve gotta get to work.”
    “Work?”
    “Yes,” he replies and gestures toward the microphone by the baby grand the lounge owner recently placed in an alcove formerly occupied by a moth-eaten stuffed moose.
    I look at the microphone and piano then back at Tim. Apparently the question in my mind is on my face for he says, “No, I don’t play, never did. I sing.”
    “Sing?” 
    Damn. I sound like I had several shots of Maker’s.
    He laughs. “You sound surprised.”
    I grin. “Yeah, I am surprised. Both at you singing tonight and the owner paying for entertainment on a Thursday night.”
    “This is a first for us both. I’m doing tonight free, and he’s paying me for Friday and Saturday nights.”

    I glance back at the piano and microphone. Why not? I think. I could sit here a while and be entertained. I hope he has a good voice.
    “How long will you be singing tonight?” I ask.
    “Until nine. Until midnight tomorrow and Saturday nights.” He grins at me. “Yes, to answer the next question, I will take a couple of breaks those two nights.”
    I laugh at that. “I hope you do. I’ll stick around for a while and see if your singing impresses me.”
    “I hope it does. I’d like to see you here tomorrow and Saturday also.” 
    With that, he walks to the microphone, turns it on and starts singing “When We Kiss” and I am shocked. This wonderful baritone voice belongs to Tim Strathmore, whose songs I listen to on the radio. I know nothing about him other than I like to sing along with his songs. 

    I stay for the evening, enjoying live music by a singer whose songs I appreciate for their heartfelt lyrics and simple instrumentals. 
    I slip away just before nine, thankful the barkeep knows nothing about me, and Tim knows nothing about me but my first name. I did not expect to find anyone here tonight who piqued my interest, much less an exceptional singer. I am not ready for more conversation tonight.

    Will I return tomorrow night? Yes. Anticipating more wonderful singing and perhaps a kiss . . .