“Man, I gotta get out of this place,” Denny says to the bartender who’s writing a novel. “Square root of nothing. Playing and playing in the bar, and all it’s leading to is more playing and playing. Where are the women who were supposed to be chasing me? Where are the chicks? See that brunette at the end of the bar with the red nails and rasta curls? She’s like a bored cat. She blinks her eyes and turns away.”
“Where’s the money and fame? I’d settle for fame. And chicks.” Denny taps a brisk tattoo on the counter.
“You can write that in your book. Page one: Denny’s leaving.”
“Here, get me another mojito. I’ve got five minutes before the next set.”
“But this is what I wanted. A life in music. Even when I was a kid, I dreamed about playing riffs and chords and tunes all night. To have music coming out of my fingers and going out to the dancers and out into the universe. What a connection–destroying time and space. I thought it would be paradise. And here I am in paradise.” Denny finishes his drink.
“Now that brunette is smiling at me. She’s tapping those red nails. Sounds like a tango.” A smile flashes across his face in the icy neon light. “Maybe I’ll stay.”