“Oh!” he says, acting surprised. “This is where it gets better!”

“I’m afraid.”

“Nah.”

As they move inside, they are pleasantly surprised to find that the bar reflects their moods. Mostly green, mostly empty, and mostly jazz, though at the intersections of these sensory dimensions there is clear room for turning them all up if desired. The bar seems to be quietly nodding off to sleep; with restless talk.

Travis sets his guitar case against the bar, and gently grabbing the gin bottle from Melissa, he puts it up on the bar. “How about two Sapphire and tonics, Harris?”

Harris says, “How was the show?”

“Welllll. It was a special night,” and he winks at Melissa, who blushes.

“Excellent.”

Melissa asks, “This is when it gets better?”

“Well… it’s free.”

Melissa crushes one eye in disapproval. “Girls always drink for free.”

“Only the pretty ones.”

She slaps his shoulder.

“Well, what did you think ‘better’ meant?”

“I didn’t think it meant me carrying the bottle,” rolling eyes, crossing her arms.

“La tee da.”

With the drinks they sit down to a quiet, padded booth; a semi-circular alcove off from the bar, off from the speaker, but opposite from a large wall-length mirror, which makes for flirtatious games of glances.

“Do you live off of your shows?”

“Nope”

“So what, do you have a job or something?”

“Uh. Nope.”

“Must be nice.”

“Well, I shouldn’t say I have no job. I do stuff to get money. It’s just not exactly like work.”

“That sounds clandestine.”

Innocently, “Clandestine?”

“You ‘do stuff’? That’s not supposed to sound like you’re in the mob or something?”

Travis smiles and lights a cigarette as coyly as he can. “Can’t tell ya’.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Strictly top secret.”

“So what? Am I going to get shot hanging around with you?”

“What!? No, no—nothin’ dangerous. Stupid stuff.”

“I’m safe then?” She’s actually serious.

“Seriously? I’m hardly dangerous. You’re really worried?”

Quietly, “You know, I don’t actually know who you are.”

“Look, I’m not exactly proud of it—I mean, I am really proud of it—for pulling it off…”

She waits for him to gather his words, in disbelief that there’s actually some kind of underbelly.

“I make fake IDs.”

It takes a second and then she guffaws.

“Hey, it’s… you know… kinda’ serious.”

“Oh yeah. You’re a real don.”

Melissa spins her straw in her drink for a minute, thinking about something. Travis lets her, smoking his cigarette. “It’s kind of funny,” she starts, and then pauses again, debating whether to say what she is thinking. “I’ve been going to the Engine Room a lot.”

Travis nods seriously. “That is strange.”

“No.” She pats his arm, thankful for his playfulness. But she says like he should know, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah?” She looks at him until he looks back and then she holds his stare for a moment.

“Oh.”

“It’s just—” she replies—another thing he should already know. “We never finished what we started.”

“Oh yeah,” Travis replies, looking out into the mirror opposite the table.

She looks at the mirror, into his reflection’s eyes, “Exactly.”

Smiling, he turns back to the real Melissa and says, “I’m not sure I’m the same person I was when you met me.” He gets quiet, “Hell, I think I knew you before I knew you.”

Leisurely, sipping from her glass, she says, “Talk.”

“I don’t know. Something’s been eating at me.”

“Did something happen to you?”

“What? Bad?”

“Yeah.”

Travis laughs. “Nothing bad ever happens to me.” But then slumps a bit. “Nothing actually bad.”

“Nothing?”

“You know, there’s bad, tragic, and then there’s just unfortunate.”

Crossing her arms, Melissa inquires, “And how do you keep bad things from happening to you, Mr. Fleeting?”

“Well, Miss…?”

“Keller.”

Travis nods. Melissa Keller. “Well, Miss Keller, when something bad happens to me, I enjoy it. Voilá.”

Melissa giggles. God, she thinks it’s stupid but she giggles. Travis is an amateur magician, declaring his vanishing trick amazing after throwing the coin under the table with a loud clank. She can’t make light of her thoughts, but she’s glad he can.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Musing, Melissa ventures another question, skeptical, “Then why such an empty song, Travis?”

He looks down at the table, then the mirror, tries to smile at her, but can’t. It’s so simple, so easy, so hard, so trivial, but all real. When he looks up, Melissa does not recognize his face. The cheeks are hollow, the jaw line slack, no smile. He looks at her with a plea in his eyes and speaks as quickly as he can, “I’m alone.”

Melissa touches his arm. Shocking him with her touch, almost from out of the mirror, proof of the moment, “Maybe more people are listening than you think.”

Travis looks at her hand on his arm. “No. It’s not who’s listening. I mean, it’s who’s listening, but… I have to love them. It needs to be my friends. I don’t want my love to become some kind of disheveled work—some kind of fame.” —the horror— “It’s not my place.” A warmth comes over him, an old anger and the warmth of defiance against the judges. His own words surprise him then, as the music so often does. “My place among the stars is reserved. I will cry for all eternity there, but not while I am still alive.”

If red could talk, it would speak of its emperor tyranny over nights on small planets with no oxygen or life; whose gloom it lit not brightly but slowly. Motions under a red sun weaken even Superman. If red could move, its motion would burn and blur. And maybe this is why the people who come to see Travis, the ones who think in silence, sit under red lights: to contemplate space without life. He does not know. Drenched in red are the souls of the quiet; the noise of their errant thoughts entrapped by cool postures that disdain words in favor of a music that suffers more pleasantly. At least when Travis plays, it can only ever be in the dark, red lights; orbiting jealous planets—red lights from the ceiling and red lights from the cigarettes that burn patiently. Patience is not the virtue of making time speed—it is patience that enjoys the wait. It’s those who are to be executed that smoke.

The darkness of the stage recedes when his set is done, in at least so much as it is there at all. He is ready to go. So, imagine his surprise when a pair of creamy, alluring legs come to stand before his downturned eyes, packing up his guitar. Instinct would normally dictate that he look up to see, but this night his instincts are pretty gone, and he finishes packing before looking up to meet the gaze of the owner of the legs. He looks up them, up past a black, short skirt, a periwinkle blue t-shirt, past a beautifully sculpted neck to—he smiles and says simply, “Melissa.”

She winks. “Well, I finally got to see you and know who you are at the same time.”

“Ta-da.”

She cocks her head, can see his spirits are down—as she had expected from listening to the show, loping and all. “I thought I would congratulate you. You sounded great.”

Travis feels a tinge of guilt for being glum. He knows this is no “acquaintance,” but he stands before her, toying with his guitar pick. He tosses it in the air playfully and catches it. “Sorry. That’s not a great one to end a show on.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly club music, but it was beautiful.”

Travis looks at his boots.

“Listen, what are you doing now?”

“Well, I don’t drink at the bars I play at, and I don’t play at the bars I drink at. So, I’m stuck not staying here.”

“I just thought I’d see if we were heading the same direction…” she leans her head to one side.

Travis is between glum and this girl. She wins. He smiles—the first time in hours. “Where you headin’?”

“283 actually.”

“Well, I could use some company.”

“Me too.”

The pair begin making their way to the stairs, and Travis stops by the bar to speak to Alex, the owner. “I’ll be by in the morning.”

“Yup,” Alex replies.

“You mind if I take a bottle of Sapphire with me?”

Reaching under the bar, Alex pulls out a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, setting it carefully on the counter, in front of Travis, he keeps his hand on the neck and says, kidding, “You didn’t make that much.”

“So sue me,” and he takes the bottle with a grin.

Alex smiles—eyeing Melissa, “See ya’ in the morning!”

Travis distracts her, “Look! Gin!”

She fakes excitement, oh so happy to carry the bottle, too. “Lovely.”

Travis waves to Alex and follows Melissa up the stairs, keeping his head down as her skirt tosses temptingly in front of him. She’s talking, oblivious, “That must be nice.”

“Oh, it gets better.”

“Oh really?”

They get out to the street, warm and wet still from sporadic showers. “Yeah, you’ll see.”

Taking out his cigarettes, Travis offers Melissa one. She takes it. He lights hers, then his own, and they walk to the corner of Thomas and Washington in silence. When they turn the corner, Melissa says, “I hope you don’t think that if I…” she pauses to word the sentence.

Travis thinks he finishes her thought. “No, I don’t. I really would just like someone to talk to for a little while—no strings. Just company.” They take a few more steps before Travis says, chipper, “Then we can have sex.”

Melissa laughs out loud, and then coughs on the smoke. Travis stops and turns while she tries to catch her breath. He can’t help but engage the schudenfreude before giving her a kitten pat on the back. She slaps him on the shoulder as she finishes out her last coughing fit. “Thanks!”

“Whatever. I know how to smoke.”

“Was that the better part?”

“Yeah,” Travis replies slowly, “But it gets even better!”

“That wasn’t better.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Am I?”

“No. I just said that to be polite. You’re actually only entitled to my opinions.”

“So you don’t want mine?”

“Not really.”

“Cause you’re kind of lonely and it’s kind of sad.”

Travis stops, shocked, then incredulous. He turns to look at her on this dark side street.

Not phased, she asks “Why?”

“How could you—”

“That was you on stage, right?”

He waits.

“I was listening.” And after another moment, “And I’ve seen you before.” She looks up to the building tops, “Even though last time you sorta’ looked different.”

At first he’s defensive—wants to deny his state of mind to this stranger. But he looks at his boots and he knows it’s not pity. She just knows. And then, in the same instant, he wants to latch on to her; beg her to just hold him. Thank God or whatever! Somebody noticed that even in the midst of applause, cheers, lights and music, it was possible to be on an island, left behind. That hole in his boots is old, with strands pouring out, and after another moment of peering at it, he gets disgusted by that old crush stuff that’s got something to do with being on stage. She was listening because she knew the song, where those lonely chords were wandering off to. And when he looks, up from his boots, he can see sadness in her eyes, and he can see that she’s hoping to tell him about it. She didn’t just come to see the show. She came to see this show. This surrender show and him.

“That last song you played…” Melissa starts. Travis comes out of his thoughts and they match stares, “When did you write that?”

He nods and thinks about that vacant park—it was all there, wasn’t it? “Man. You really were listening.”

“I was just wondering. I guess I knew that. It was very—”

“Sad?”

“No.” She looks around at the windows that surround his face and then, “Empty.”

Travis’s face is blank, a mask. He didn’t think anyone would have heard that. They never did—not currents that deep. And he wasn’t sure anymore why he had disguised the words, seeing this beautiful girl really understand it anyway.

She turns, maybe hurt, maybe thinking. But a street light glints off her black hair—her raven black hair—and then he knows who she is.

John steps up to Travis and Melissa, hands in pockets, and a box underneath one arm. “Hey.”

“What’s up, Lardo?”

John shrugs.

“Hi,” Melissa says.

Travis makes introductions.

Reaching out, John shakes Melissa’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says plainly, and Travis looks at his friend more closely. Something is wrong. “You all right?”

John tilts his head left then right, and then says, nodding slowly, “It’s been an interesting day.”

“The band? Rachel?”

John just squints his eyes a bit. Hesitantly, he repeats himself. “It’s just been an interesting day.”

Travis nods in understanding. “Well, uh, Nick and Karen are here in back. And I think we’re goin’ to Mean Mike’s to find Dizzy and Kristin a little later.”

“Okay,” John replies. Looking at the bar, John says, “I’m gonna’ get a drink.”

“All right, buddy,” Travis pats John on the shoulder and as John starts to walk away, calls after him, “Are you wasted?”

John just throws a don’t-you-know-it look over his shoulder.

“Is he all right?” Melissa asks as Travis turns back to her.

“I don’t know,” he says and glances back over his shoulder.

“You can go talk to him,” Melissa offers, smiling. “I won’t be offended.”

“Oh, I…” Travis says. He looks back over his shoulder and watches John sidle up to the bar with a pretty miserable expression on his face, like he’s sitting in something wet. Looking back at Melissa, Travis takes a breath. “Yeah… I guess I should.” He finds himself genuinely troubled by John’s demeanor, but pleased with the fact that this total stranger understand his loyalties.

“We’ll talk another time,” Melissa says hopefully.

Travis is more content leaving the conversation at this spot, anyway—no numbers exchanged, no last names—just on a good note and a hope that they might meet again by chance. He knows they will. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’ll see ya’ around.” He gets up from his stool.

Melissa gets her purse, finishes her drink. She holds out her hand and Travis takes it. She lets him hold it for a moment just longer than is polite. Leaning in, “I’ll come find you at one of your shows.”

Releasing her hand, Travis offers, “Maybe next time we can talk about something interesting.” She smiles. “Philistine.” And then she turns and walks away. Travis watches her leave and heads for the booth, grabbing an empty chair on his way, and slides it up to the table, straddling it. Nick looks somewhat concerned by John’s demeanor as well, but Chris and Karen are pretty engrossed in their conversation.

“You wanna’ shoot some darts?” Travis asks John.

Reaching down to the floor, John picks up the box he brought in and replies, “No. But let’s go play this.”

Travis looks at the box more carefully now and sees it is John’s chess set. “Okay.” He and John get up and make their way to an empty spot towards the far end of the bar.

“Are we talkin’ about it, or hoping it goes away?”

“Well,” John starts, setting up pawns, “We’re movin’ to Atlanta—the band. Eric found a place, and I think we all agree that moving there right now is the best thing for the band. Bigger gigs, more money.”

Travis furrows his brow and begins setting up his own pieces. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s not,” John agrees with a sniff. “Actually, after listening to Eric and Leo, I really have to agree that they’re right.”

“Well, we’ll all be sad to see you go, but Atlanta’s not that far away.”

John nods his head in agreement.

“So…” Travis asks, lingering, figuring there is more.

It takes John a moment to think about what he wants to say. When he sets his last piece down he looks Travis in the eyes and says, “When I told Rachel, she dumped me.” John pulls in his lips and sighs through his nose.

Disappointed immediately, Travis shakes his head. “Well, shit,” he says quietly. John just nods and drinks from his beer as Travis finishes setting up his side of the board. “She seem pretty sure? Maybe she’s just overreacting, you know?”

“Well, hell. It doesn’t matter, does it? If she can’t back me up on this…”

Travis nods, “Yeah, that’s true.” He waits a beat. “You could always kill her.”

John sighs again and moves his queen’s pawn out two spaces, but he breaks a small smile.