He sat at the bar, eyeing her. Looking to see if she was with anybody. Perhaps there was a man in her life, he thought. Some tall guy with slicked back black hair, real swarthy type, maybe Arab or Spainish. Could be a white guy with curly blonde, medium build, arms to hold her. He kept on looking.

A redhead. This ginger lady kept dancing. Swaying to the music on the jukebox. Coltrane playing Central Park West. The music was right. The mood was set. The short, stocky older fan was moving in.

He walked up to her with fear. A nervousness in his soul that he had not experienced since high school when he asked Sandy Perkins out. Remember her, he whispered to himself. She wound up married to some insurance salesman.

The jukebox spinned another tune. Bill Evans Trio playing Solar. This was off the Sunday at the Village Vanguard album. He knew it well. Scott LaFaro on bass. Paul Motian on drums. She had good taste. He was smitten right away.

Hello, he said.

Hi. She continued moving her hips from one side to the other.

I like your selections, he told her.

Yeah, she said. My boyfriend hates jazz.

Oh. Nevermind. I just wanted to say, keep up the good work. The music.

I will.

He started to walk away. Turned slowly, hoping she’d say  something.

Hey, she said. Wanna dance?

He paused. Thought of the chances, and said, maybe next time.