Ok, I’m a romantic. I admit it. I used to love to do all sorts of goofy romantic things for Margot. I miss not being able to do that now.
So when I see something neat, something, well, romantic, I tend to take notice.
First, the non-romantic but equally cool thing. The waitress wanted to know what I was doing. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, pretty as hell (as is everyone working at the Venetian.) I told her I was writing. A book.
Because it wasn’t too busy, we got talking. Sure, waiter, customer kind of stuff, but I asked her what made a good book for her. She said the language had to sing. I liked that. Not exactly what I’m writing but I get where she’s coming from. She asked what I thought was a good book. I said something that transported me from the mundane world to someplace different, someplace exciting, someplace I wanted to be.
It was fun to talk about writing and story-telling with someone else. I miss that, too. She was nice to spend a little time with me.
But when she left, I heard the voice of an angel.
I’d sat on the faux canal in the Venetian and every so often a gondolier would gondolier by, singing to the people in his gondola. I loved hearing the tenor voices. So lovely.
But the voice I heard was a women’s. I looked over, and there punting by was a lovely, young woman singing at the top of her lungs. It was simply beautiful. Oh sure, she was quite pretty as well, but that voice, oh that voice.
Now I totally get why women go weak at the knees when being sung to. I get it. It’s a thing of real beauty.
I stayed long enough to hear her twice.
I could have stayed forever.
But writing awaited.