The bartender comes over to her in a minute or so and I knew what she was saying even before I read her lips, “Captain and Coke”. I laugh to myself a little and think, ‘that’s my girl”. I can’t take my eyes off her! Is she really mine? Am I really hers? My head is spinning. I go over to the far end of the bar, opposite her, and order another round. I think I will need this. I had expected her to give me a nod or something or just any sort of acknowledgment to say ‘ok, I’m here, let’s have fun’ or something. But nope, nothing. I might as well have been just anybody else in there. But, isn’t that the way it was supposed to work anyway? Wow, what is that? Do I feel rejected? Alone? Jealous? Scared? Nervous? Hot? Excited? Intense? Yes to all eight of those, and probably then some more. She’s just sitting there, sipping her drink, toying with her new iPhone when I start looking around. A few people have left and more have come in, a little busier now. I’m noticing glances from some of the. Julie and I got along famously, and found that we were great writing partners. Every song I wrote, including ‘Jazzy Girl’ was based on her stuff. Her music was erudite, complex, beautiful, and I found myself working harder than I’d ever worked before. We spent long hours at the piano, sweating and agonizing over just the right lyric or phrase, giving up and retreating into Chinese food down on Lafayette, then zipping back up to my place refreshed by King Pao chicken and pot stickers, ready to create another jazz/blues masterpiece. One night she invited me up to listen to some old tapes of hers. Her music was great, but her lyrics sucked (she said it, not me), and she was wondering if I could do anything with some of her forgotten material. Her place was on Mott Street, a cool little fifth floor chick flat with sharp art deco prints and a couple of cats. Piled high in a corner was a lump of men’s shirts, magazines and assorted shaving toiletries. ‘The Detritus’ she called it, the.
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