Despite his earlier chilliness, Lisa noticed Bob at her club many more times over the course of the semester. Sometimes they would catch up, or trade books, and sometimes they wouldn't say a word. He never commented on her playing, though she often caught him watching.
Bart ran an unemployment scam. The Simpsons went to Vietnam. Rod Flanders got married. Dr. Nick went missing. Nelson briefly became an organic farmer. Lisa earned a 4.0, ran several student clubs, and applied to her dream schools for the fall, including one last minute long shot. Homer learned the meaning of Kwanzaa.
It was the darkest part of winter, and Lisa trudged to work through heavy snow. She knew that tonight, her audience would be warm in their homes instead of out listening to her. But she didn't mind. Especially compared to her crappy general education classes, the saxophone was the most challenging and rewarding study in Lisa's life.
The club was empty, excepting Shauna the bartender, her boss, and one patron.
"Lisa. It's an empty house. If you really need the hours, you can give the can a good scrubbing. Otherwise, get lost."
Lisa shook the snow out of her layers.
"I was really looking forward to playing tonight."
"Well, Lou's in bed with the flu and there's only one customer. Hey, bozo," he yelled across the bar. "You interested in hearing some unaccompanied sousaphone?"
"Saxophone," Lisa corrected flatly, annoyed at his purposeful ignorance. The lone customer shifted, and she immediately recognized his silhouette. Sideshow Bob didn't react to her boss's screaming, and Shauna had to jab him to get his attention. She said something to Bob and pointed at the door, where a snowy Lisa Simpson waved awkwardly under apple red cheeks. Bob nodded.
"Whatever. Don't clock in unless you clean something," ordered the boss.
Lisa got on stage and screwed on her mouthpiece.
"You have a request. Don't play so loud. That's from me. And the scarecrow dude says no jazz, and nothing hopeful." Shauna told Lisa. "Whatever that means."
Bob stared, unfocused, at his drink, and when Lisa saw him she was struck again by the weight of his sorrow.
Lisa didn't bother with the microphone. She began slowly and simply with a composition from Unsuk Chin. At first she worried it would be too modern for Bob, but as she warmed up to the piece she realized it didn't matter. She abandoned the familiar notes and slid gradually into a heady, atonal haze.
This was Lisa Simpson's hell. It was the thick, rotting stew of her heart–incomprehensible, alien, and revolting–the sense that she would always be a waste, that it was natural and good to be isolated, and fate to be suffocated by her hated self. She prayed for acceptance with one steady, drawn out note, but this doomed hunt became painful and graceless as she steadily ran out of air. The saxophone withered and died with a bare, helpless twitch of the keys. Lisa closed her eyes, pulse roaring, and didn't inhale until the sweet, accidental ambient sounds softly filled the silence with life again.
She packed up her instrument, composing herself, and went to the bar.
"What the hell was that? It wasn't even a song."
"It's post-modern," Lisa told Shauna, but there was no fight left in her.
"More like post-good."
Sideshow Bob let out a loud laugh, startling them both.
"Normally, I'd agree with you," he conceded. "But Lisa Simpson is bafflingly rare."
Lisa tingled with the unexpected praise. "Thanks, Bob."
Shauna rolled her eyes and went to the other side of the bar to look at her phone.
Lisa brought out Bob's copy of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man.
"Here's your book back. I wanted to thank you extra for this one. It was transformative."
"To tell you the truth, our literary game of catch has been a sorely needed bright spot in my life, as well," Bob admitted. "Francesca left me last summer. She took Gino with her to Italy, but leaving Springfield violates my parole, so I haven't seen my son in four months."
Lisa tried to absorb the reality of this, but couldn't.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
He took out his wallet and paid his bill.
"Bob?" Lisa heard herself call quietly as Bob put on his coat. Her voice had been so small she was surprised when he glanced back. "I was wondering... La Bohème is coming to the Springfield Opera as soon as the Nutcracker wraps up. I was planning to go by myself, but..."
Bob looked at her with a very strange expression, a mixture of suspicion and something else. She thought that the conclusion to her question was obvious, but he seemed to be waiting.
"...I would love if you came with me."
She could tell Bob was scouring her for a mistake, or a trap rake, but it was an honest question. Finally, he took out a pen and jotted something onto one of the bar napkins before putting on his hat and leaving.
As soon as he'd gone, Lisa eagerly uncovered the napkin to see what he'd written her. It was his phone number and initials.
