We met in Westborrow. She waifed about as if she was going to lose her stitching, like she had a phobia of sanguine stuffing.
There was something about her that kicked me in teeth. I had this phobia of being kicked in the teeth.
We stayed on opposite sides of the common room until Racket Squad came on.
Something was in the air that night.
Trevor would not shut the fuck up. And the people who normally told him to calm down were not around. I would have said something, but I really am terrified of getting kicked in the teeth.
The waif rolled her sleeves up over her elbows and took the piece of gum out of her mouth.
“Trevor, we can’t hear.”
“So, either shut up or leave.”
I was impressed. We didn’t become best friends or anything. But she got less annoying.
A week later she heard me singing in the shower. She threw a compliment over her shoulder as she walked out of the bathroom.
About twenty years later, over the course of a few days, I kept hearing a song on the radio every place I went.
It was an older song. A crooney original of one of the popular songs. The woman had an amazing, sultry blues voice.
The words stuck in my head. I woke up singing it on a Tuesday morning and I was starting to get freaked out.
My daughter told me to find out about the song. She believes that hippie shit.
I eventually found a photo of the singer. It was the waif.
Holy shit! She knew what she was talking about. Maybe I do have a good voice.
I thought of sending her a letter, but when I asked for more information, I found out that she had died a few years before.
This rush of grief shook me. I started to sob right there in the record shop.