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there and watched him perform and wondered if he smelled as good as he looked. I was really feeling him.
     
    I leaned over to Carolyn again and asked, “Who is that guy?”
     
    “Who, the lead singer?”
     
    I nodded but didn’t take my eyes off of him. I could’ve sworn he was looking at me, too.
     
    “Quinton Farver. Gorgeous, isn’t he? Women come from miles around to see him perform. He’s gonna be a big star one day.”
     
    “Yeah,” I agreed and then continued to enjoy the show.
     
    The last song was an instrumental tune that featured solos from each individual musician. I was especially impressed by the trumpeter, who was the only non-African American in the band. He was a tall, white guy with short, dark-blond hair. He played that trumpet like he was full of the soul of a black man.
     
    After two encores, the show ended with a standing ovation from the entire crowd. Carla and I decided to stay a little while longer, both of us hating to see the evening come to an end. We’d really enjoyed this night out with Carolyn and Ronda and were discussing plans for our next weekend off when a waitress approached me.
     
    She placed a fresh daiquiri in front of me. “Here you are, ma’am.”
     
    “Oh, wait,” I said, stopping her in her tracks as she turned to leave. “I didn’t order another.”
     
    She gave me a knowing smile. “Complements of Mr. King.”
     
    I frowned. I didn’t know any Mr. King. “Um, who is Mr. King?”
     
    “A member of the band,” she replied and then walked away.
     
    I sat there with a confused look on my face as the other ladies at the table broke into a refrain of “oh’s” and “ah’s,” along with verbal speculations as to who Mr. King could’ve been. After much deliberation, the consensus was that Mr. King was probably the keyboardist since Carla claimed to have seen him looking at our table more than once. I had no idea who Mr. King was, but I did want to thank him for the drink. I decided that if he was the keyboardist, it wouldn’t exactly be a bad thing. He wasn’t as handsome as Quinton, but he was cute.
     
    The other ladies continued to chatter on. I continued to sip my drink and was shocked to see the trumpeter from the band approaching our table a few minutes later. Maybe he’s relaying a message from the keyboardist , I thought. He pulled a chair from the table next to ours and sat down beside me.
     
    “You enjoying your drink?” he asked. I was taken aback by the fact that he sounded like a black man.
     
    “Um, yes, I am,” I answered.
     
    He smiled, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. His blue eyes sparkled as he spoke. “Good, I thought you might want another one.”
     
    I nearly choked. “You mean you bought this drink for me?”
     
    He nodded. “Yeah. And I’d like to buy you dinner one day, too.”         
     
    I looked around at my table mates and smiled. Were they pulling a fast one on me?
     
    “Oh no, is this a joke?” I asked.
     
    His brow furrowed. “No, why?”
     
    “Well, I haven’t ever been approached by a guy like you before,” I replied, choosing my words carefully.
     
    “What? A trumpet player? Don’t tell me you’ve got something against dating musicians,” he said with a serious look on his face.
     
    Damn, I’m gonna have to just come on out and say it . “No, I mean a… a white guy . I’ve only ever dated black men, you know?”
     
    He leaned closer to me. “Oh, so you have something against dating white men?”
     
    I leaned back and frowned. “Well… no, that’s not what I’m saying. I mean, I’ve just never dated outside of my race before. That’s all.”
     
    He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Well, I’ve never dated inside mine.”
     
    I tilted my head to the side. “Really? Never?”
     
    “Really. Never. So, what’s your name?  Mine’s Chris. Chris King,” he said and then gave me a lopsided grin.
     
    I returned his smile without even realizing it.