gulped the
remainder of her wine and slipped through the packed bodies. Donovan sat at a
table speaking with the guitar player briefly, who then turned around and made
his way to the bar. She approached slowly, heart beating erratically as she
neared the table. She cleared her throat shyly. “Hello? Mr. Strait?” His head
turned toward her. “I just wanted to say I think you’re—great, I love your
music,” she finished quickly in a rush.
“Thank you.
Thank you very much. Would you like to sit down?” He moved a chair out, and a
flash of white caught her eye. Amanda stopped. It was a cane. That meant
—
“Did you wish
to sit down?” he asked again.
He was blind.
Amanda cursed her stupidity as she sat. Her air of expectation deflated. His black
wraparound sunglasses suited him. But his shades and his slow measured ascent
up the stage weren’t a part of some cool musician persona. Donovan was
protecting his eyes and counting steps. Maybe if she wasn’t so lost in the
music, she might have noticed. Worse, a sneaking suspicion grew as she replayed
the shared looks and giggles of her friends as they urged her to make a play
for him. Her cheeks burned. So, they knew and she didn’t. They probably thought
it was funny setting her up to make a pass at a blind man, who couldn’t see her
efforts.
“My name is
Amanda.” She looked at him carefully, covertly even though she didn’t have to.
He didn’t look disabled or helpless. His black T-shirt stretched over his broad
shoulders. He looked strong, not like the bouncers at the club, but with an
athletic swimmer’s build. His pale skin suggested he spent a lot of late nights
inside. The presence of that generous, curving mouth saved his features from
being too sharp.
“Call me
Donovan. What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Um, just
some white wine.”
He signaled
his hand through the air for the bartender.
“I should be
buying you a drink,” said Amanda. He nursed a glass of scotch in front of him.
“Then you can
do the next round if you want.” That same half-smile appeared again. A frisson
of electricity shot through her.
All her fantasies leading up to this moment of actually speaking to him. Being close to
him. And yet all her preconceived notions about him were wrong and so not
based on reality. She was way out of her depth here, out of her comfort zone. Maybe
she would just have a drink and leave.
“So you’ve been
checking out the show. Isn’t it a little late for a weeknight for you? Or do
you keep musician hours?”
“Yes, I guess
it is,” Amanda confessed, “I work during the week as a graphic designer. But maybe
I will play hooky tomorrow.”
“Well I won’t
tell,” he said slowly, leaning in to her. His tone implied they shared a
special secret. Amanda’s stomach tightened as she changed the subject.
“How do you
come up with all of that? It’s amazing.”
He scratched
his chin. “Well I’ve been doing it for a long time. Practice I guess. Maybe before you were born.” He laughed.
“I am not
that young,” Amanda informed him. Donovan looked like he had maybe ten years on
her.
“No, I guess
not. But your voice sounds young. Sweet. May I?”
His hand
reached out toward hers and gripped it gently. “I can tell a lot by a voice, by
sounds…and by touch.” A strong, callused palm enveloped hers. Her heart
quickened as he stroked her left hand with his roughened fingers, and her
breath drew in sharply. He smiled as he passed over her bare ring finger,
lingering there. “Your hands are soft. Not too soft though.” He didn’t let go,
leaving her body buzzing with the contact.
“So, here you
are by yourself in a little beat down blues club. Is it too late for your
friends? You must be the night owl of the group.”
Intrigued, Amanda
couldn’t help giving him a curious once over. “You seem to know a lot about
me.”
He
straightened. “You’re about twenty-five,” he replied with a slight smile. “About five
remainder of her wine and slipped through the packed bodies. Donovan sat at a
table speaking with the guitar player briefly, who then turned around and made
his way to the bar. She approached slowly, heart beating erratically as she
neared the table. She cleared her throat shyly. “Hello? Mr. Strait?” His head
turned toward her. “I just wanted to say I think you’re—great, I love your
music,” she finished quickly in a rush.
“Thank you.
Thank you very much. Would you like to sit down?” He moved a chair out, and a
flash of white caught her eye. Amanda stopped. It was a cane. That meant
—
“Did you wish
to sit down?” he asked again.
He was blind.
Amanda cursed her stupidity as she sat. Her air of expectation deflated. His black
wraparound sunglasses suited him. But his shades and his slow measured ascent
up the stage weren’t a part of some cool musician persona. Donovan was
protecting his eyes and counting steps. Maybe if she wasn’t so lost in the
music, she might have noticed. Worse, a sneaking suspicion grew as she replayed
the shared looks and giggles of her friends as they urged her to make a play
for him. Her cheeks burned. So, they knew and she didn’t. They probably thought
it was funny setting her up to make a pass at a blind man, who couldn’t see her
efforts.
“My name is
Amanda.” She looked at him carefully, covertly even though she didn’t have to.
He didn’t look disabled or helpless. His black T-shirt stretched over his broad
shoulders. He looked strong, not like the bouncers at the club, but with an
athletic swimmer’s build. His pale skin suggested he spent a lot of late nights
inside. The presence of that generous, curving mouth saved his features from
being too sharp.
“Call me
Donovan. What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Um, just
some white wine.”
He signaled
his hand through the air for the bartender.
“I should be
buying you a drink,” said Amanda. He nursed a glass of scotch in front of him.
“Then you can
do the next round if you want.” That same half-smile appeared again. A frisson
of electricity shot through her.
All her fantasies leading up to this moment of actually speaking to him. Being close to
him. And yet all her preconceived notions about him were wrong and so not
based on reality. She was way out of her depth here, out of her comfort zone. Maybe
she would just have a drink and leave.
“So you’ve been
checking out the show. Isn’t it a little late for a weeknight for you? Or do
you keep musician hours?”
“Yes, I guess
it is,” Amanda confessed, “I work during the week as a graphic designer. But maybe
I will play hooky tomorrow.”
“Well I won’t
tell,” he said slowly, leaning in to her. His tone implied they shared a
special secret. Amanda’s stomach tightened as she changed the subject.
“How do you
come up with all of that? It’s amazing.”
He scratched
his chin. “Well I’ve been doing it for a long time. Practice I guess. Maybe before you were born.” He laughed.
“I am not
that young,” Amanda informed him. Donovan looked like he had maybe ten years on
her.
“No, I guess
not. But your voice sounds young. Sweet. May I?”
His hand
reached out toward hers and gripped it gently. “I can tell a lot by a voice, by
sounds…and by touch.” A strong, callused palm enveloped hers. Her heart
quickened as he stroked her left hand with his roughened fingers, and her
breath drew in sharply. He smiled as he passed over her bare ring finger,
lingering there. “Your hands are soft. Not too soft though.” He didn’t let go,
leaving her body buzzing with the contact.
“So, here you
are by yourself in a little beat down blues club. Is it too late for your
friends? You must be the night owl of the group.”
Intrigued, Amanda
couldn’t help giving him a curious once over. “You seem to know a lot about
me.”
He
straightened. “You’re about twenty-five,” he replied with a slight smile. “About five
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