excerpt from a draft of bad moon

She sat alone at a small table in the darkened bar. A slender forefinger lazily traced a pattern on the tabletop while a cigarette cocked upwards in her other hand gave her look of decadent sophistication. She had class, yes, but the surrounding crowd of chunky women with too-tight jeans and good old boys with their cowboy hats accentuated her style. She wore dark hose and a high cut slit in her long black dress revealed a shapely leg. She seemed oblivious to all around her save for the three-piece band on stage. A seated guitarist played a slow blues number while a bass player and a drummer offered subtle accompaniment. Her head nodded slowly to the music, her black, shoulder length hair gently swaying to the beat.

While I watched her trying not to stare, she gave me a cursory glance that I tried to acknowledge, but her attention immediately returned to the source of the music. The smooth sound of the jazz guitar filled the room, but it seemed that only she and I were listening. The crowd, who all seemed to be in conversation, would have been happier with a country music tune from a jukebox.