We would sit, distant from the stages of the small, cramped clubs. Against a back wall. Or off to a side. Just the dying edge of the spill from the stage lights reaching us. Reds. Blues. Primary colors. For secondary purposes.
No one ever knew. Nor would they have guessed. Not to look at you. You did not look the vamp. Or the vixen. ('Nor Donner nor Blitzen,' you liked to add.)
I can still see you. Standing at the rail. It requires no effort at all.
At a table. All dark wood, sanded smooth, finish shiny. I would sit. Whiling away a morning. Or afternoon. Or both. In the days before you arrived. Why not? The beer was cold. And plentiful. The noodles were some of the best in the city. The staff accommodating. Quick to learn your preferences. That kind of place.
The sign had stopped you. Planted your feet transfixed. Cocked your head to one side. Curious. I pulled up behind you. Just short of collision.