Close Your Eyes

11

That night, after work, I headed to the Elephant Room to meet Gerry and listen to some jazz. I found a spot outside Manuel’s, and as I locked the car, I peered into the dim restaurant, watching a man lift a nacho to his mouth. Up Congress Avenue, the capitol building was illuminated, glowing against the evening sky.

I crossed the street and opened the door to a staircase. I could hear horns as I descended, and I breathed in the smells of whiskey and floor wax. Sitting in front of the stage, sipping a drink, was Gerry. He wore jeans and the blue sweater I’d bought him for his birthday. He leaned across a candle toward a very pretty woman. The woman told a joke, wrapping wheat-colored curls around her finger, and Gerry laughed. He looked happier than he’d looked in some time.

“Hey,” I said, approaching the table.

“Lauren,” said Gerry, standing, “this is Rose.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Rose.

“Likewise,” I said. “What are you guys drinking?”

“Scotch,” they said in unison. I ordered a beer. Rose, it turned out, was a jazz singer. When the set began, she sat on the edge of a wooden stool, leaning toward the microphone. Her voice was low and sultry.

“Maybe you’d be happier with someone like Rose,” I said to Gerry after I’d had a few beers.

Gerry put his arm around me, but said, “Maybe.”

That night, when I thought he was asleep, I whispered, “Gerry, why do you stay with me?”

He tightened his hold on me and whispered back, “You make life more interesting. And you love me.”

I was silent, letting his kindness settle over me like a blanket.