The Woman in Red
Two strangers, one jazz lounge, and eleven minutes of almost saying hello.
He noticed her the moment she entered the jazz lounge.
Red dress. Black heels. The kind of confidence that made a crowded room seem suddenly empty.
She sat alone at the bar. He watched her order a drink. Then another. Not for herself.
She turned toward him and raised the second glass. He looked over his shoulder. Nobody there.
She smiled. He walked over. “Do I know you?” “Not yet.”
He sat down. “That’s a pretty bold introduction.”
“You were staring.” “Was I?” “For eleven minutes.”
He laughed. “You counted?”
She leaned closer. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to come over.”
The band shifted into something slow. He offered his hand. “Dance?”
She looked at it for a moment. Then she took it.
On the dance floor, she rested a hand against his shoulder.
“You’re nervous,” she whispered. “A little.” “Good.”
“Why good?” “Because so am I.”
He looked at her in surprise. She laughed softly.
“Confidence doesn’t mean you don’t feel butterflies.”
The song ended. Neither let go.
Outside, the city lights reflected off the wet pavement. He offered to call her a cab.
She shook her head. “Walk with me instead.”
And they disappeared into the city, two strangers who had finally stopped pretending they weren’t looking for each other.
Sometimes eleven minutes is all it takes to change a night.