Muted trumpets loudly rang out through the speakers. It was time for their solo. All the other instruments rested while the trumpets had their moment. Yet, they also huffed indignantly, for the trumpets always had their shine in every song, considering how loud they were. I felt like those percussion and woodwind instruments, sighing and waiting impatiently for my turn. It seemed like it was always the loudest one’s turn.
It was a Monday night, and the lounge stretched before me. The trio to my left whispered promises of a rendezvous later. Another solo woman tipped her sunglasses down at me, acknowledging our mutual loneliness but refusing to commiserate in it with me. I was grateful this stranger respected my boundaries. A lone man sat three seats to my right, nursing a Kentucky bourbon on the rocks. It was still full, so his night was likely only going to get worse.
The music shifted to more uptempo scat and doowop. This band was known for its moody setlists, which is the main reason I chose to patronize this particular venue. The other reason was literally dropped into my hand one afternoon after a glass of pinot. I took it as a clue and came down to investigate.
My cab sav was already drained so my night was already trashed. I waved the petite and pretty bartender over, signaling to my empty glass for another. The bartender tipped her head in acknowledgment, again understanding boundaries without a spoken word. Where had these people been all my life? I’d wasted my time with people who disregarded and dismissed me even after I fought to have my space. No matter, they would come to know me after this evening.
Solemn bass thrummed through the place. Some folks straggling in took that cue to head straight to the dance floor. Nobody had taken me dancing for years, but my clue, laid starch-flat on the black granite bar top, told me that somebody in my life was dancing.
I’d received my clue last week from Ronny, our loyal mailman. He and I grew up in the same small backwater town near Richmond, VA. We had both freed ourselves from the shackles of small-town living; we were city people now! Ronny dutifully handed me the mail and peeked down my robe, like the gentleman he was. I smiled coyly at him and brushed my ringed fingers along his hand. He tipped his hat to me and hopped back into that hot box of a work van. Gotta love Ronny’s ability to boost an ego.
I ambled back inside to the marble granite countertop in our chef’s kitchen. The 4,000-square foot home was custom-built to appease our family’s needs. Five bedrooms, three-and-a-half bathrooms, three stories with a finished basement, a butler’s pantry, a saltwater pool to beat the Southern summer heat, and a rustic modern design. It was our dream home with dream kids and even a dream dog.
But, that’s the thing about dreams: they are not reality. And when you wake up, they often disappear. That credit card statement, that clue, was the blaring alarm clock. With a location listed, I knew I needed to confirm that this dream was actually only smoke and mirrors, an illusion to placate me.
Sunglasses blocking most of my face and a vintage black and white headscarf tied like Audrey’s, I sat at the bar in that little black dress he’d coughed up the coin to buy me when I found out about the squandered $2,000 for a motorcycle that only collected dust. I grinned to myself, wanting to shake the memory from my head. My wine had been delivered, and I needed it to stay calm.
That statement revealed a recurring charge, every Monday, for the past two years at The Mood Room. He would come home late, but he always said he was with five of his other buddies from work. But, Chatty Chuck told me that he and three of the other guys hadn’t been to the latest boys’ club night out. I could’ve kissed Chuck on those loose lips of his. It solidified my plan to discover what I already knew.
So, here I sat, watching the door like a lunatic. This was not love, but we’d disguised it as such for so long. I didn’t know the difference. I was actually beginning to enjoy the music when a whoosh alerted me to the door. There they were. My husband and his flavor of the year. She was stunning, with long blonde hair, big doe hazel eyes, and a willowy figure. It was comical how different we were. I was a pear-shaped, hickory-toned, curly-haired, deep-browned eyed woman. Guess he wanted to try something new. He could’ve at least asked.
They were dancers, all right. They beelined toward the dancefloor, and a tear escaped down my cheek. I swiveled in the barstool to face them. They were basically guffawing in the middle of the dancefloor, like it was some kind of 90s romcom. I was the last thing on his mind, and I was here only thinking of him.
Throwing the glass back, Kentucky bourbon on my right finally looked up at me, and a slow lopsided smile graced his face. I was a sucker for a wonky smile, but I was through being somebody’s sucker. I ignored him and snatched the credit card statement from the bar. I threw down two hundred dollar bills because the bartender deserved tips for having to deal with people. Clacking in my Louboutins, I spared a last glance at my husband, who was too enthralled with Cinderella to notice much else. He’d notice me when he saw those papers on the marble granite countertop when he got home.
Luci Strong is a budding writer, hailing from Mississippi. Her Southern experiences and upbringing shape her writing. She loves to read romances, thrillers, and fantasy novels. When she is not reading, writing, or working in healthcare, she enjoys baking, hanging out with family and friends, and binging various TV shows (current binge: Real Housewives of Atlanta).
Featured image by Alexsandr Popov on Unsplash.
