In a scruffy, near-empty bar off 14th, a couple buys me a tequila and we talk old tunes. They are slumming, the woman clearly in the lead, sizing me up. Her music memories come alive and I offer to get my guitar out of the car.
The barman catches me at the door. You’re not bringing any guitar in here, he says, and hands me some change. Now put this in the jukebox and go sit down.
More tequila and lyrics. The graceless lady’s hand slides up my thigh and I see the man grinning. We’re about ready. First the john. Near the sink, I finger Am, C in the stale air and splash the song on the cracked mirror and across two dingy walls.
Easy to do.
Barry Basden lives close to a wild river and edits Camroc Press Review. His writing has appeared elsewhere.