The girl at the piano in this bar is singing what she called “our latest love song” and she’s singing the truth, because I can feel it even through the beer and the darkness.
This one is different from every other love song because she wrote it and she’s singing it— there in that cone of light— she’s singing it just for me.
I don’t even know her name, but she’s stared at me all the while she’s been playing, even clamming a few notes because I’m such a distraction and you know I’m the target of the arrow of her soul, her heart, her song, OUR song.
“Can I get another here, buddy?” I said to the barkeep, adding, “Would you just look at her, would you listen to her?”
And now she’s finished, and as I smooth my way around this rudely mumbing crowd to introduce myself and pledge my troth, I notice the white stick on the floor next to her bench, and I’m glad of all she’s reminded me about Love — artful Love, dream Love, her Love, my Love, our Love — how Love is blind, too.
Here is my latest Five Sentence Fiction offering, based on a prompt from Lillie McFerrin. This week: Awkward.