It was Saturday. I stopped off at the local coffee bar for a cup of my favorite brew. I wasn’t looking to meet anybody. I didn’t.
Well, at least not at first. I was at my favorite table in the very back of the place, the one against the wall facing the front, a good location to see everyone in the bar. The crowd wasn’t overwhelming. That’s why I was surprised when she came in and headed toward my table. She was tall and thin, maybe too thin but who was I to judge. She stopped at my table and leaned on a chair.
“You know, that’s where I normally sit,” she said to me.
“What’s stopping you, Blondie?” I said.
“Don’t call me that, my hair is red,” she told me. She wasn’t lying. The lighting wasn’t so good.
“What should I call you?” I asked.
Just then, some goofball fired up the jukebox, a loud rendition of Bing Crosby singing “Temptation” from some old movie. I watched as her lips moved, but my lip reading isn’t so good, so I said, “What?”
She said it again, but I still couldn’t hear her. I motioned her into the chair across from me. She sat and smiled at me, then covered her ears. I yelled, “What are you having?”
“What?” she yelled back.
“What are you having?” Her look told me she didn’t catch it that time either. I leaned toward her and yelled, “Coffee?”
She nodded, then pointed out what she wanted on the menu.
Just then, the manager, a small, wiry, guy with black, slicked back hair, came out and, hearing the jukebox blaring, tossed his hands up, then let them drop onto his head. He rushed over to the jukebox and started shaking it wildly, screaming something as he did. After several minutes, the music died and the manager moved away from the jukebox, saying, “How many times I got to say it? No Bing Crosby!”
The jukebox was pretty banged up, so no one was able to play anything more on it.
“Whew, what a relief,” the redhead told me. “I mean, I like Crosby, but that was just too loud.”
“You got a point there Red,” I said to her.
“Don’t call me that,” she said.