I perch on a stool, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone—especially Alex, who is onstage with a drummer to back him up.
The setup is small, a raised platform in the back of the one-room bar. Along the wall opposite me is a long table lined with more barstools for additional seating.
Once I’m somewhat settled, I manage to swallow past my dry mouth long enough to order a drink from the bartender. A few chords strum through the room.
I swivel around in the stool.
Alex is wearing the same clothes from earlier. The drummer is dressed just as casually, T-shirt and jeans, and he has the biggest, most well sculpted Afro I’ve ever seen.
“Sorry, we’re not as good looking as the Flight of the Conchords,” the drummer says.
“And neither of us has a sexy accent.” Alex strums the guitar along with his words.
“Also we aren’t funny,” his bandmate adds.
I laugh along with a few other patrons, the ones who are paying attention and not chatting or drinking.
“We couldn’t even come up with a band name,” Alex says.
“So we’ve decided to call ourselves Name This Band.”
They segue into a song, a jaunty sea shanty about hats.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it’s not this. They aren’t just a band, they’re a comedy duo.
I sip my drink and take in the show, my focus almost entirely on Alex with only occasional glances at the drummer. Alex is so comfortable there, onstage, singing in front of strangers.
I could never do this.
The words of the song blur into the background as I fixate on his fingers, long and capable, strumming the strings. He can sing pretty well, actually. Even though the songs are simple and silly, his voice is a deep tenor, sending chills up my spine and then back down, spreading heat through my stomach, quieting the nerves in my belly. Apparently, I have a thing for musicians. Or it’s just Alex.
They aren’t getting rolling laughs from the small crowd, just the occasional chuckle and claps from the part of the audience that is actually paying attention. But they’re clearly having a blast, exchanging grins, singing alone and together with perfect timing. Even though it’s a small-time gig and they’re singing about sombreros versus ball caps. They would be enjoying themselves if the room were empty. It’s random and funny and their enjoyment is infectious.
I have so much fun watching and clapping along that when it ends, I’m jolted back to reality. I’ve been sitting here alone, actually enjoying myself. I almost forgot to be apprehensive about being somewhere on my own and surrounded by strangers.
Scattered applause breaks out across the bar. They bow and thank the audience, then Alex sets his guitar off to the side and steps off the stage.
Three women sit at a table on the side—leggy blondes with short skirts—and Alex and Leon head in their direction. One of them jumps up and gives Alex a hug.
Probably a girlfriend. I spin around in the stool, facing the bar, nerves that had settled during the show quivering back to life.
I clench my empty glass. My drink is gone. I should leave now, while I’m ahead.
He invited me because he felt bad, but I’m sure one of those women is his date. I’m just a friend. Not even that, more of an acquaintance. What if he comes over here and introduces one of them as his girlfriend? He’ll be able to tell I’ve dressed up, put on makeup. Made an effort.
I’m hot and itchy. I should leave.
I slide off the stool, my toes barely touching the ground when a voice stops me.
“Hey.” Alex’s smile is bright and surprised, still flushed with adrenaline from the performance, no doubt. “You made it.”
“I did.” My voice is a little shaky. Maybe he won’t notice over the hum of conversation permeating the space around us.
He’s smiling at me, expectant, and I have no idea how to have a conversation with him outside of the office.
Oh, crap.
Tension grips my stomach in a tight fist. “The music—you did, I thought, um, it was really great. I know sea shanties are a thing, but I’m not sure I’ve heard one that’s also, uh, comedy.”
His eyes dip to my midsection, where my hands clutch my purse like a lifeline.
His smile droops. “Are you leaving already?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to intrude on anything.” I glance behind him, looking for the leggy blondes.
“You aren’t intruding,” he says quickly. “Just stay for a little bit longer? I said I would buy you a drink, remember?”
“Oh, um.”
Anxiety whispers in my ear. You’re going to say something stupid. You have nothing to talk about. Nothing in common. He’s going to think you’re a weirdo. He probably already does. He feels bad for you and he’s nice and now he’s going to hate you.
I want to run. I want to hide.
But I have to remember the whole point of this. At least, what I think is the point. I can control me. If I do or say anything dumb, he won’t remember it anyway. I could jump up on the bar and yodel while beating my hands against my chest like an ape and no one would remember it tomorrow. Except me. And even knowing that to be the truth, it doesn’t stop the fluttering of my heart or the sweat in my palms.
“Yes. Sure. A drink sounds great. Um. Gin and tonic.”
He tells the bartender, ordering himself a beer, and we wait while the bartender gets our drinks. We stand side by side at the bar in silence. People jostle around us. More patrons file in through the front door.
Alex shifts toward me as more bodies crowd the bar.
He smells good. Like aftershave and soap. Simple. Clean. Much better than the cologne
