She is wearing an off-white, cashmere sweater set, which, apparently, I’m a sucker for.
I’m fresh from rehearsal with the newly-dubbed Smith Family Players, my country gig. Kevin Smith (mandolin, fiddle, vocals), Nick Smith (pedal steel), and I (guitar, vocals) are at La Belle Epoque on Broadway & 12th. We’ve come to see a Cajun band. It’s an anthropological trip.
I see her across the dance floor. She wears blonde hair in a ponytail to her shoulders, the aforementioned sweater set, black slacks, and death-defying heels. She has cheekbones to die for. I struggle to notice the band.
Four beers, many songs, and much distraction later, I am exiting the restroom when I see her standing by the bar digging through her purse. I am a fool if I fail to take action. So I do.
I say hello, and ask her to dance.
She politely evades my invitation to dance, and I politely decline her suggestion that I do so with her older friend.
Her name is Suzanne, as in rhymes with flan. She is from New Orleans. She’s Spanish. I note the diamond-crusted watch — what is it with my taste? She is recently unemployed — shitcanned, as she puts it — and in New York for a week. She is interviewing in Midtown on Wednesday.
“I’m right across the street,” I say.
Thn I go for broke.
“I’m from Iowa, and I’ve lived in New York for ten years. So I’m an excellent tour guide, and would be happy to show you around.”
I offer my card, and retreat, relieved.
‘Will she call?’ I wonder.
Does it matter?