from Nothing in the Dark

The singer at Montag’s was new, a tall redhead in a dark blue dress. Her pitch was shaky and she held on to the microphone as if it were a brake handle on a runaway train, but I liked her voice, the way she would rush a verse and then self-consciously slow the next one down. It drove the drummer crazy but he tried to stay with her, unlike the piano player, who just gave her room to work, letting her know he was behind her when she faltered, but other- wise just seeming to pass the time. After three or four songs and some offhand applause, Montag skipped up to the stage and said her name, but I didn’t catch it. The woman looked disappointed with herself, but managed a smile and nodded to the audience, most of whom were oblivious to her. I wanted to intercept her as she moved toward the bar, introduce myself, tell her how great she was, trade life stories. But what was the point? I had my hands full with this case, with Felice, with figuring out why somebody wanted me to take up scuba diving without an Aqua-Lung. Besides, I had been dreaming of Acacia lately: soft, late-summer might- have-beens with ponds and crickets and checkered picnic blankets, Acacia and I feeding each other cheese and grapes and such. The dreams ended with earthquakes or sudden downpours of dead frogs. I glanced over toward the bar and noticed that the red- head was looking at me. I smiled at her, waved, then realized that she hadn’t been looking at me at all, but at a man who was passing behind me with roses in his hand. He gave her the flowers and they kissed. I was almost happy for them.