Someone Like You. Timothy James Beck

the bar, preferring that she remain a mysterious, sultry creature of the night.

      He automatically joined in the applause when she finished her set. After being stopped by a few of the patrons, she came to the bar, where the bartender handed over her usual glass of sparkling water with a twist of lemon.

      “Hi, Buddy,” she said to Derek, giving him one of her languorous smiles. She always made it sound like his name, although he knew that she was fully aware of who he was.

      “Hi, Sheree,” Derek said, smiling back as she slid onto the stool next to his. “You sound great, as always.”

      “Honey, it’s the songs. I haven’t sounded great since God was a boy, but thank you for saying so. You look a little gloomy. Is that the songs, too? You came in during the sad set.”

      He shook his head and said, “The sad set is my favorite.”

      “Mine, too,” she said. “I wonder why a broken heart is always more interesting than a light one?” He’d been staring toward the stage, but that made him turn a startled look her way. “Feeling lonely and abandoned?” she asked.

      “A little,” he admitted. “Sort of like I’ve overstayed my welcome. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if he’s tired of me.”

      “Depends,” she said with another slow smile. “Can you sing?”

      He caught her meaning and returned an equally wistful smile, saying, “If only I could.”

      She placed one beautifully manicured hand on his arm and said, “There’s more than one way to make music, Buddy. You just need to find your voice.”

      Wondering if she’d noticed him the night he’d met Christian in the bar, Derek decided it might be prudent to change the subject and said, “Let’s play the guessing game.”

      Sometimes, if she was in the mood, she’d join him in picking out people from the crowd and making up stories about them. Although his own tales were improbably outrageous, he was willing to bet hers were almost always accurate. Not much got past Sheree.

      “Okay. But you pick,” she said.

      He looked at the crowd, spotted a face he’d seen in the newspaper, and said, “The woman with the curls.”

      “That wouldn’t be fair,” she said. “I know who she is.”

      He shrugged and said, “Tell me anyway.”

      “Emily-Anne Barrister. The people she’s with are from out of town. Maybe business associates of her husband. Or from one of the conglomerates that keep trying to buy him out. It’ll never happen. Cort’s got ink in his veins; he’ll die owning those newspapers.”

      “Which one is he?” Derek asked.

      “The stocky one with the unlit cigar. His doctor told him no more smoking, but he can’t give them up, so he just doesn’t light up. Cort thinks Emily-Anne hung the moon, but she’s a troubled soul. They never had the children they’d hoped for. And these days, many of their friends are on their second or third trophy wives. Emily-Anne’s solution is surgery. She’s got so much plastic in her, they should stamp ‘Mattel’ on her ass.” Derek let out a bark of laughter, and Sheree shook her head. “It’s sad, really. When a man falls in love with who you are, why keep trying to be someone else?”

      He met her eyes again, wondering if she was trying to convey advice.

      “Your public awaits,” the bartender said.

      Sheree patted Derek’s arm again and said, “Goodnight, Buddy.”

      “Goodnight, Sheree.”

      After Sheree took her spot next to the piano and began singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” Derek saw Davii enter the Aurora. He was dressed in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt with Keith Haring drawings dancing over his chest. Derek waved to him and watched as Davii’s face lit up before he walked toward the bar.

      “I’ll have what I’m having,” Davii said to the bartender as he commandeered the stool next to Derek’s. “A cosmopolitan,” he clarified.

      “Where’s Vienna?” Derek asked. “I assumed you two were out together.”

      “I checked my vulva at the door,” Davii quipped. Derek winced, which made Davii laugh. “She and I were at Asteroid Arcade when you called. I was in the middle of defending my high score on Ms. Pac-Man; otherwise I would’ve answered. Vienna was complaining about a headache or something, so she went home. Ah, sweet nectar of the gods. Thank you.”

      When Davii reached for his wallet, Derek said, “It’s on me. Thanks for coming out tonight. I needed company.”

      “Tonight? I came out long before tonight.” Davii sipped at his drink before picking it up. “I was a young lad of twelve in Muncie when reality hit me.”

      “Reality or puberty?” Derek asked.

      “A little of both, actually. I was getting a haircut when I realized my barber was a hot stud. I had fantasies about locking the door and letting him have his way with me. But of course, fantasies rarely become reality. He was a married father of three and also went to our church.” Davii gulped at his drink, then continued. “Cut to the mall, six years later, when I finally acted on my feelings and picked up some guy at Pluto. It wasn’t great, but it was good to finally feel like I was…myself, I suppose. Does that make any sense?”

      “Completely,” Derek replied, thinking about how he’d felt the same way when he was in college. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

      “I guess it would depend on—hey! How do you keep doing this to me? I came here fully intending to get to know more about you. Whenever we get together, you somehow get me talking about myself. You hardly ever talk about yourself,” Davii complained good-naturedly. He playfully tapped Derek’s knee and prodded, “Go ahead. Talk about you.”

      “You want me to open up?” Derek asked.

      Davii looked over the rim of his glass and arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. Open up for me, baby.”

      “I don’t open up for just anyone,” Derek said, matching Davii’s suggestive tone.

      “We’ll see about that,” Davii said. Neither one of them went any further, so Davii added, “I’ll just sit here and sip quietly until you’re more forthcoming. I can hold out all night if I have to.”

      “Check!” Derek exclaimed.