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moment on my breasts, then stopping at my lips. He licked his own,
and, finally, endlessly , his glimmering eyes settled on
mine.
    He smiled.
    God, I feel like I’ve just been fucked with
his eyes.
    And...boy did it feel good.
    I was speechless, shivering a little. It
wasn’t cold. It was actually quite hot, early June, no rain for a
week. I had sweat forming in a light sheen all over my skin. But I
was trembling. My eyes flicked to him, then to the street, then to
him again.
    I was a mess. A total mess. His eye-sex had
disoriented me. It had both turned me on and scared me. I wanted to
know what his game was, and I also didn’t want to know.
    Yeah, I was screwed.
    “You said you sing here often?” he asked.
Making conversation.
    His voice, so deep, so confident. It would
sound great if he also sang. Or if he talked to me close in my
ear while hovering above me...
    “I...uhm...yeah, a few times a week
sometimes.” I crossed my hefty leg over the other. That female
reaction I told you about earlier was in full rage right now. I was
going to need a change of underwear.
    Silence.
    Well, silence between us, because on my right
there were people hugging and singing and laughing. There was a
dude sitting on a stool outside the only English Pub in Nashville
(which also offers Karaoke) telling people “you can smoke inside!
And there’s no cover fee!”
    But between me and Ace—nothing.
    I looked back at him. “Where you from?” I
ventured, trying to break the silence.
    He took a Zippo from his pocket, lit his
cigarette. Looking away, he said, “I’m from a little of
everywhere.”
    We were still a street apart. Granted, it’s a
small street, but it’s a street nonetheless.
    “You just passing through?”
    He shrugged, looked down at his feet.
“Sure.”
    Silence again.
    “You smoke?” he asked, holding the lit
cigarette a little away from him, towards me.
    “Not anymore.”
    “You shouldn’t. Your voice is...” He breathed
in deeply, widened his eyes... “Wow! Just... wow !” He shook
his head, grinned a little.
    I’ve heard that before, and it never gets
old, and it never stops making me feel all warm and fuzzy. And I
can also tell when it’s genuine. I’m not good at telling when guys
are being genuine about my body (I generally assume they’re always
lying when it’s a compliment), but about my voice? I can tell.
    Ace was being genuine.
    Ace was truly floored by the way I’d sung.
That’s cool. It doesn’t go to my head. Not really.
    “Thank you. Your guitar playing
is...something else as well.”
    He looked down at his metallic Gibson, a sexy
brand of guitar that emulates all that’s best in a woman: Curves .
    He shrugged. Looked away again. Said
nothing.
    Uncomfortable moment.
    “If I came by here next Tuesday,” he said,
“would you sing with me again?” He looked straight at me.
    A tsunami came tumbling over me with bricks
and debris swimming all around me, but I managed to answer—a pat
answer, a quick answer, an answer that didn’t really sink in until
much later that night: “Sure.”
    Then silence again. Not even a wind in my
ears. Just dead, muffled silence. Even Mr. English Karaoke was
quiet for a moment.
    Ace smiled, his deep dimples showing up, his
dark brown eyes gleaming brilliantly. Then he picked up his guitar,
strapped it on his shoulder, strummed a C chord once. And said,
“Cool.”
    I noticed his southern twang more strongly.
As if it came in and out. Maybe from years of travel? Or from him
trying to hide the accent? South Carolina? But it wasn’t fully
southern. Maybe he really was from a little of everywhere.
    He nodded slightly, pushed himself off the
wall, and said, “Well, see you in a week, then.”
    And then he walked off.
    Just like that.
    Leaving me hanging.
    Leaving his cowboy hat behind on the plastic
garbage can.
    I thought of calling out and reminding him
about the hat, but I didn’t. I couldn’t speak. I just watched him
go. Watched his swagger, his