Three of the six saxophonists are doing their own variations on the same head swagger — I really don’t know what else to call it — that the other three are doing as a unit.
“Do you think anybody in here has an original bone in their body?” I ask.
“It’s Coltrane night,” he says. “People aren’t going for original, they’re going for him.”
“I guess,” I answer, and look back at the stage.
“What do you think about what’s going on with us?” he asks.
“I’m good with it.”
“Well, that’s good,” he snorts.
I look up at him. “What?” I ask.
“I never know what to do with you,” he says. “Sometimes you’re so detailed and intense on a topic, but other times you’re just blasé about everything. The funny thing is I can never tell which way you’re going to react.”
“You know what I think we need right now?” I ask.
“What’s that?”
“A drink,” I tell him. “Any chance I could convince you to make a quick trip to the bar?”
“If we wait a minute, I’m sure our waiter will be around,” he says.
“You know what I think is funny?” I ask him.
“What’s that?”
“You invited me to a jazz bar, but not once since we sat down have you looked at the stage or seemed the slightest bit interested in the music,” I answer.
“I don’t really care for jazz,” he says.
I glare at him. “Then what the fuck are we doing here?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “from what I’ve heard, one of the coolest places you can take a date is a jazz club.”
“I guess it depends on the date,” I say, and look over at him. He looks disappointed. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be, though.”
That perks him right up. I wield quite the power with this man, don’t I?
“You know what I think we need right now?” I ask.
“Drinks,” he says. “Fine, I’ll head over to the bar and-”
“No,” I interrupt. “I’m past that. What I think we need right now is a nice secluded or semi-secluded place where I can ride you like we’re back in the first year of the roaring 20s and I’ve just won the right to vote.”
His face is red. It’s hilarious.
“I don’t know if there’s anywhere in here that’s private enough for something like that,” he says.
“Lame,” I say, and add a fake yawn for good measure. “You know, it’s not every day a gorgeous woman like me offers to let a person into her holy of holies. That goes double for women in jazz clubs.”
He smiles at me again, and I slide my foot up the inside of his leg, winking at him when I get close to his crotch.
“I bet we could find a spot,” he says.
“Great idea,” I tell him. “You go scout locations. I’m going to sit here and watch the six faces of Coltrane and wait for someone to come by and offer me a drink.”