The jazz club is a safe haven for the damaged, eccentric, and the staunch loner. That’s why I wasn’t surprised at all or judgmental when a small, young, blonde-haired woman tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. I was blocking the entrance, enjoying the music, and lost in a world created by Freddie Hubbard. I didn’t notice the door had opened and she had walked in. I collected the cover charge and she entered the protective cloak of the club. We diligently defend the holy rights of all to enjoy live jazz without appraisal or reproach. This cute, little woman would be safe. I was mentally outlining the storyline that would novelize her courage and strength. I was proud to be in her presence. There sat an attractive young woman with her wrinkle-free innocence venturing out into the city alone on Valentine’s Day weekend. Was she recently dumped? Or had she booted some poor schmuck out of her life? Too easy. She’s more complex than that. I studied her as I mentally began sketching out the character based on the vulnerable, but tough, cutie sitting alone at the bar. A young guy with an uncertain, scruffy beard entered the club and the star of my novel lit up as her friend joined her at the bar. I crumpled up my novel outline and tossed it in the mental waste bin along with all of the other unfinished stories and poems.
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