It was uncharacteristically cool that evening in Manhattan, at least for August. I wore with me on stage a brown boa scarf to hide from the air conditioning.
I thought of this morning: "No one goes out on Tuesdays." Henry eyed me as he combed through the National Enquirer.
"I would."
"I do not believe you would." He gave me a sneer.
I held under my shoulder the body of my guitar, humming some tune into the microphone like it was the ear of a lover. I wore sunglasses, blocking out all but the sound of my voice.
"Woo!" A single shout came from a corner of the room. I took an intermission.
"Nicole!" I left the stool unattended, prepared to approach the owner.
"You were great!"
"Thanks, John," I grinned at him.
"I'm thinking about closing early tonight, so I'm going to let you go. Why don't you sit and have a drink?"
"Really? Thanks." I told him. "I do have to leave at eleven, anyway."
"Awesome. I'll see you on Friday?"
"Of course." He stopped himself for a moment.
"Can I ask where you're going?"
"Just another party. You know how Manhattan likes to party."
"On the rooftop?"
"Exactly." I approached the bar to take up John's offer.
"What will it be?"
"Scotch, neat."
"Gotcha."
The glass sweat in my palms, and I shivered in my dress that offered the warmth of a blade of grass. I took off my glasses, the first time in a few hours, and let my eyes adjust to the lighting. I felt a firm hand come from behind me and grasp my shoulder.
"Bonjour ma cherie" A man with a thick French accent whispered in my ear. It was strangely sensual, smelling of a vapory wine, but it spooked me.
"Are you are ze singer?" I turned sharply behind me to meet the voice. I fell silent. "I love a woman with a beautiful voice." I blushed.
"Thank you. I am." I spoke clearly, stark with his slurred speech. He was obviously intoxicated. He grabbed my hand to give me a wet kiss, and took a pen from the bar.
"My number." He scribbled something on my hand and grabbed from himself nowhere in particular a rose, want of its thorns. He grabbed my face to kiss me on the cheek. "Call me." He held my hand in a soft grasp and stumbled away. "I must go" he called. I sat in my chair, abashedly charmed and overtaken. The bartender gave me a look and turned towards me.
"Nice." I took a breath. The bartender approached me. "Did you know that guy?"
"No, I've never seen him in my life."
"Weird."
"I never caught your name."
"It's Paul." He nodded, smiling with his mouth open.
"Hey Paul. Nicole."
"It's okay, I know; I saw the posters."
"Oh, shit." I fumbled with my glass and put it up to him. "Did he slip me anything?"
"No, I didn't see nothing." Paul leaned forward.
"How much do I owe you?"
"On the house." I smiled.
"Thanks." I went to get my things, snapping my guitar into the hard case.
"Is that your friend?" I looked up. Paul escaped from his cage, standing on the floor and pointing to the entrance.
"What are you talking about?" Paul laughed and clutched his stomach.
"I think that guy just passed out on the ground"
"Uh oh." Paul stopped laughing and looked at me like I was supposed to do something.
"Did you watch the news last night? Apparently they're taking kidneys."
"Who, the mob?"
"I don't think they're so much in action anymore." He said. "Maybe"
"Should we help him?"
"You know what, I bet his is already gone. You can help him." I looked at the window where the basement met the sidewalk, and saw his face smashed up against the window. It couldn't be safe.
"Can you help me?" Paul shook his head.
"You're on your own." I sighed. I walked slowly to the front, sickened by my own morals.
"Sir?" I was met with a soft breeze of cool air. I tapped his foot with mine, and set my guitar down on the concrete to help him up. He was barely conscious.
"Ah, mon-amor…" he lifted his head up, only to let it fall again.
"Where do you live?" There was no answer. "Hey! Wake up!" I waved to a taxi parked by the curb. He waved to me. I opened the door to throw my guitar in, my purse, and then to drag him behind me.
The taxi was driven by an old man smoking a cigar.
"Drop me off in East village."
"Anywhere in particular?" The cabbie turned and I was hit with a wave of cigar smoke. I gave him my street address. "Alright-y, den."
I sat back in my seat. "I deed not know we were going home to-gezzer" he was going in and out of consciousness, and this time, his hand groped my left breast. He had a dumb look on his face; I was practically sitting on his thigh; the cab was so small. He quietly moaned in pleasure right behind me. It felt nice. By now, he could stumble on his own, but he still needed to be led up the stairs and held from behind to keep him from falling.
"I cannot wait to 'ave sex, now" the man leaned against the wall as I unlocked all of my locks. The door creaked open. Henry told me earlier that day how he would be spending the night at his girlfriends, so "don't wait up."
"I'm sorry, I never caught your name."
"Francis, mon amor" he stumbled to the couch and shut his eyes. I set my guitar by the door and hung my bag on the coat hanger.
"Francis." I repeated. I went into the pantry and got out a bottle of merlot. I poured myself a glass. "Francis" I whispered under my breath. It was a nice name. I approached the basket next to the couch and lay a blanket over his body. I swung his legs so that he lay straight across the cushions. "Francis" I mouthed. I hesitantly placed my hand over his head. He had a head full of tousled blond hair—it was soft, yet evidently unwashed for a couple of days. He smelled of sweat—I could tell he was French.