A Different Blue(95)

expensive to heat.”

“Wilson. It's August in Nevada. I'm not cold.”

“So . . . why is the recliner in the middle of the floor?” Wilson insisted.

“I like hearing you play at night,” I admitted easily, much to my surprise. I hadn't planned

to tell him. “The sound travels through the vent.

“You like to hear me play?” Wilson sounded shocked.

“Sure,” I said easily, shrugging as if it was no big deal. “It's nice.” Nice was an

understatement. “I just keep wishing you would play something by Willie,” I teased.

Wilson looked crestfallen. “Willie?”

“Yes, Willie,” I insisted, trying not to giggle. “Willie Nelson is one of the greatest

songwriters of all time.”

[page]“Huh,” Wilson said, scratching his head. “I guess I'm not that familiar with his . . .

work.”

He looked so flummoxed that I couldn't help myself and burst out laughing. “Willie Nelson is a

country singer – an old-timer. Jimmy loved him. Actually, Jimmy kind of looked like him, just

with darker skin and less scruff. Jimmy had the braids and the bandana, though, and he had every

album Willie had ever put out. We listened to those songs over and over.” I didn't really feel

like laughing anymore and abruptly changed the subject.

“There's one song you play that I especially like,” I ventured.

“Really? Hum a bit.”

“I can't hum, sing, dance, or recite poetry, Wilson.”

“Just a bit, so I know which tune you like.”

I cleared my throat, scrunched my eyes closed, and tried to think of the tune. It was there in

my head, like a cool stream of water. Beautiful. I attempted a couple of notes, and gaining

confidence, hummed a few more, still with my eyes closed. I felt quite pleased with myself and

opened one eye to see how my humming had been received.

Wilson's face was bright red, and he was shaking with laughter. “I don't have a clue what song

you're humming, luv. Maybe you should hum a few more bars until I have it.”

“You . . . jerk!” I fumed, slapping at him as he laughed harder. “I told you I couldn't sing!

Stop it!”

“No . . . really, it was brilliant!” he wheezed, warding me off. I gave up with a huff and

started dragging my recliner from the middle of the floor, indicating I wouldn't be listening

anymore, now that he'd gone and embarrassed me.

“Come on, I'm sorry. Here. I'll hum now so you can poke fun at me.” He pulled the chair back

directly under the vent. “Sit right here and put your feet up.” He pushed me down gently into

the chair, and lifted my feet so they were propped on the recliner's footrest. “Even better,

I'll run up and get my cello, and I'll bring it down and I'll play for you.”

“Not interested,” I lied. The thought of him playing his cello for me made me feel slightly

breathless and lightheaded. Thankfully, he just laughed and jogged out of my apartment. I could

hear him flying up the stairs and his door bang above me. In minutes he was back, carrying the

huge cello case. He snagged one of my armless kitchen chairs, sat down in front of me, and

pulled out his shiny black cello. He proceeded to tune and tighten his strings as I watched,

trying to hide my anticipation.