shoulder. She looked around once, scratched herself between her breasts, wandered over to the bar, and asked, “Seen Wendy?”
“Not in yet.”
“Ah, man—we were supposed to meet down at the Schoolhouse,” the woman said. She glanced over at Virgil and Zoe, her gaze lingering on Virgil for a moment, then flicking to Zoe, and her mouth turned down. The two women stared at each other for a moment, then the other woman turned back to the bartender. “We’re working up ‘Lover Do.’ If you see her, tell her we’re down there, waiting.”
Virgil watched her go, and when she was gone, Zoe leaned forward and said, “She’s a drummer.”
“My type, too,” Virgil said.
“Not your type,” she said. “She lives with the lead singer.”
“Yeah? Maybe they’re breaking up,” Virgil said, hitting on the Diet Coke. “Musicians lead tumultuous lives.”
“The lead singer is Wendy—it’s an all-girl band,” Zoe said.
Ah, he thought. “Okay.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘What a terrible waste.’ ”
“Hey, I’m sophisticated—I went to college,” Virgil said. “Anyway, the way you sounded, it’s not being wasted.”
“Ahhh, poop.” Zoe finished her beer in a gulp.
“Ahhh poop, what?” Virgil asked.
“Ahhh . . .” She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Wendy. The singer.”
“She’s pretty good?”
“Very good. Country, some crossover jazz stuff,” Zoe said. “Mostly country, though, Dixie Chicks.”
“ Really not my type, then, even if she wasn’t gay,” Virgil said. “Give me a choice between listening to a whole Dixie Chicks album, or sticking a gun in my ear, I’d have to think about it.”
“Well, she’s my type,” Zoe said. “And that’s my big problem.”
Virgil looked at her for a few seconds, then dropped his forehead on his arms. “No.”
“Well, it was gonna come out sooner or later, Virgil,” Zoe said, laughing. “We’re getting friendly, but I don’t want you to get any ideas.”
“Poop,” he said.
He looked toward the bar and saw the bartender smiling and shaking his head, then hold up a finger, pull another Diet Coke, and bring it around the bar. “On the house,” he said, when he put it on the table.
“Coulda put a little rum in it,” Virgil said.
VIRGIL SAID TO ZOE, “You know, I can usually pick up on it? I apologize if I’ve offended you along the way.”
“No, no, you were fine,” Zoe said, “and I’ve had boyfriends. Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it. But I . . . like women better. Always did and I finally admitted it to myself. I can still be attracted to some men. I mean, you’re attractive in an obvious, superficial way. When I’m attracted to a guy at all, they usually have strong feminine characteristics. Like you, with the long blond hair, and you’ve got sort of a delicate face.”
Virgil said, “Okay—you’ve guaranteed my shrink’s income for another two years.”
“You’ve got a psychiatrist? I think that’s very interesting. It shows an unexpected psychological sensitivity.”
“I don’t really have one,” Virgil said. “I was lying.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I lie a lot,” he said.
She said, “Sorry about this. I mean, the lesbian thing. I didn’t mean to lead you on, if I did.”
“That’s okay. The band doesn’t have a straight saxophone player, does it?”
HE GOT HER LAUGHING AGAIN , then asked, “Why don’t Minnesota women wear makeup? There are ten women in here, and a couple of them are pretty good-looking, including you, and none of you wear lipstick. Is it some kind of Minnesota thing? An efficiency thing? An egalitarian thing? What is it?”
“Not many people wear lipstick anymore,” Zoe said. “It’s a pain to keep it looking good. You wind up chewing it off. But . . . people will put on a touch when they go out.”
“Even gay women?”
“Not so much, maybe,” she said. “But . . . some. The girly ones.”
He thought about
“Not in yet.”
“Ah, man—we were supposed to meet down at the Schoolhouse,” the woman said. She glanced over at Virgil and Zoe, her gaze lingering on Virgil for a moment, then flicking to Zoe, and her mouth turned down. The two women stared at each other for a moment, then the other woman turned back to the bartender. “We’re working up ‘Lover Do.’ If you see her, tell her we’re down there, waiting.”
Virgil watched her go, and when she was gone, Zoe leaned forward and said, “She’s a drummer.”
“My type, too,” Virgil said.
“Not your type,” she said. “She lives with the lead singer.”
“Yeah? Maybe they’re breaking up,” Virgil said, hitting on the Diet Coke. “Musicians lead tumultuous lives.”
“The lead singer is Wendy—it’s an all-girl band,” Zoe said.
Ah, he thought. “Okay.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘What a terrible waste.’ ”
“Hey, I’m sophisticated—I went to college,” Virgil said. “Anyway, the way you sounded, it’s not being wasted.”
“Ahhh, poop.” Zoe finished her beer in a gulp.
“Ahhh poop, what?” Virgil asked.
“Ahhh . . .” She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Wendy. The singer.”
“She’s pretty good?”
“Very good. Country, some crossover jazz stuff,” Zoe said. “Mostly country, though, Dixie Chicks.”
“ Really not my type, then, even if she wasn’t gay,” Virgil said. “Give me a choice between listening to a whole Dixie Chicks album, or sticking a gun in my ear, I’d have to think about it.”
“Well, she’s my type,” Zoe said. “And that’s my big problem.”
Virgil looked at her for a few seconds, then dropped his forehead on his arms. “No.”
“Well, it was gonna come out sooner or later, Virgil,” Zoe said, laughing. “We’re getting friendly, but I don’t want you to get any ideas.”
“Poop,” he said.
He looked toward the bar and saw the bartender smiling and shaking his head, then hold up a finger, pull another Diet Coke, and bring it around the bar. “On the house,” he said, when he put it on the table.
“Coulda put a little rum in it,” Virgil said.
VIRGIL SAID TO ZOE, “You know, I can usually pick up on it? I apologize if I’ve offended you along the way.”
“No, no, you were fine,” Zoe said, “and I’ve had boyfriends. Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it. But I . . . like women better. Always did and I finally admitted it to myself. I can still be attracted to some men. I mean, you’re attractive in an obvious, superficial way. When I’m attracted to a guy at all, they usually have strong feminine characteristics. Like you, with the long blond hair, and you’ve got sort of a delicate face.”
Virgil said, “Okay—you’ve guaranteed my shrink’s income for another two years.”
“You’ve got a psychiatrist? I think that’s very interesting. It shows an unexpected psychological sensitivity.”
“I don’t really have one,” Virgil said. “I was lying.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I lie a lot,” he said.
She said, “Sorry about this. I mean, the lesbian thing. I didn’t mean to lead you on, if I did.”
“That’s okay. The band doesn’t have a straight saxophone player, does it?”
HE GOT HER LAUGHING AGAIN , then asked, “Why don’t Minnesota women wear makeup? There are ten women in here, and a couple of them are pretty good-looking, including you, and none of you wear lipstick. Is it some kind of Minnesota thing? An efficiency thing? An egalitarian thing? What is it?”
“Not many people wear lipstick anymore,” Zoe said. “It’s a pain to keep it looking good. You wind up chewing it off. But . . . people will put on a touch when they go out.”
“Even gay women?”
“Not so much, maybe,” she said. “But . . . some. The girly ones.”
He thought about
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