She played self-consciously with the fragile stem of her glass, glancing at the time on her watch. Almost two o’clock. Her friends abandoned her at The Blue Bird hours before, leaving her to sit in the dark club by herself, feeling strange and out of place. Yet she wasn’t alone. Other patrons packed the tables too, all of them waiting, just like her. Waiting for Donovan Strait. Amanda first heard him play two weeks ago. And fell in love. That her friends dragged her here initially was an irony not lost on Amanda. Blues and jazz never appealed to her. Some of it sounded too busy, the blaring of the trumpets clashing with clang of cymbals, like a cacophony of jarring instruments. Yet Donovan’s music sounded different. Slow. Sensual. Seductive. When he played, his music seared right through her, branding her soul with each lingering, tremulous note. Donovan’s saxophone sang mournfully, even sweetly at times, just as he did. After a haunting instrumental solo he switched just as easily to vocals.
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