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.