1985

I walked into the place and decided that this was where I belonged for the next two years. It was loud and raucous, and I could not hear my own voice when I ordered a drink from the bartender with hair standing straight up on her head. It was 1985, and one-night stands were in season. Perhaps they were popular and frantic because everyone knew they were on their way out. Like the bees in September.

I met a man who sang at the piano once or twice a weekend. It wasn’t the same as the driving disco beat and crappy singles bar feeling. It was a hint of something smooth and fine, lounge music adding a dirty tone to what I had heard now and then on my folks’ t.v. I was in love.

I had a crush on the man but I was in love with the music. The words. The romance of the piano in the night, speaking to me of longings that were very old. I knew this place. I had known it years before I walked inside.

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