The regular jazz group was back after a month and a half break. Surgery on the drummer's knee. So with his bionic knee and lack of consistent practice, it took a few songs before they were back in the groove. The trumpet player had sat at the bar before they played and was practicing with just the trumpet mouthpiece--sounding like a duck call. I said, "Don't do that outside or we'll have a flock of Mallards storming the club." I imagined well-behaved, mated-for-life pairs sitting at tables and maybe a group of rowdy drakes at the bar rudely quacking orders to the bartender. My fantasy vanished when in walked a checker-flag explosion. S/he wore checker shoes, spandex pants with one leg checker and the other white, and a checker blouse / shirt. In drag and tipsy already, she slurred while leaning into my face, "Whatcha think of my outfit?" Racy, was my response. S/he pulled out three individually crumpled bills in search of a Lincoln to pay the cover, all the while leaning into my space. Fortunately, the second greenback was a fiver. She sat at the bar near the door and ordered a beer and flirted with the bartender. She was trying to engage a guy at the bar in her monologue, but he sloughed her off. S/he got up and did a spastic dance before wandering over toward me with pack of cigarettes and BIC in hand. S/he leaned in and kissed my cheek and slurred, "I think you're cute." I shuddered and said, "I know." S/he went outside to smoke, flipping her gorgeous-looking brown hair. I prayed to all known deities that s/he would get distracted and wander off. No such luck, like a reoccurring bad dream s/he was back all duck-lips and hovering until she handed me three crumpled up cig packs and asked where she could buy more. I directed her to the gas station a couple of blocks away and after she left I ran to the Men's Room to scrub my cheek that was the recipient of so much unwanted love.