Page 43 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I pull up the picture of Diane on my phone. I took it after my first encounter with Eleanor so that I could try and pick apart more details myself. How I have poured over this picture, trying to find out anything and everything about it. “You recognize this musician?”

Skip looks at my phone, squinting through his glasses. He leans in, pushing his glasses up on his forehead. He looks for a long time and then utters a quick, “Nope. Should I?”

“No, no. I’m just working with an archivist at the Reeder and she’s trying to get more information since this image is going to be shown in an exhibition.” No harm in a tiny fib, especially not when it’s the kind used to manifest goodness for someone I care about.

“Mm. Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” he says.

I flick off the screen on my phone. “How about a name? Would you recognize a name?”

A soft, brushing beat begins on the drums, and the singer begins to hum into the mic.

“Depends. Heard a lot of names over the years.”

All of these old-timers and their attempt at mystery. I don’t let myself look annoyed, but I’m starting to get tired of it. “Diane Bloom. Know the name?”

Skip’s mouth gets small, and he lets out a “Hm.”

The muscles in my stomach tighten with anticipation as the name rolls around Skip’s brain. If he comes up empty, I will fall apart.

“Think she probably sent a demo back in the day. I remember the last name. Bloom.”

I hold back every impulse to explode with excitement. “Yeah? You remember listening to it?”

“No, not particularly,” Skip says, nonplussed.

Well, that was anticlimactic. “So, you didn’t play it on the radio.”

“Not that I recall.”

He goes silent as he watches the band. I can’t take my eyes off Skip, begging him to say more.

“We keep all of them though,” he says, enchanted by the Tejana singer helming the band. “They’ve been digitized, but likely she’s in the catalog.”

If only Eleanor was here to hear this. She’d be vibrating next to me. Maybe she’d grab my arm. I swoon at the thought. I’m down bad if all it takes is me thinking about her touch to send me into the stratosphere.

“I can look tomorrow for you if you like,” Skip says. “Wouldn’t be hard.”

“Could you? That would be fantastic! You have no idea how much that would mean to me,” I say. And I mean it. It would mean everything to Eleanor, but it would mean everything to me too. Not only would I have answers, but I’d also get to be Eleanor’s hero.

Maybe that will set something off in her. Show her just how much I’m trying to show up for her. As a friend, sure, but I’d like to me much, much more.

I can imagine what my father would say. That I’m being a wuss about it, and I should just go after her. The worst she can say is no thanks. I’ve been rejected before. Hell, I’m rejected on a daily basis just by being in the line of work I’m in.

However, I fear a no from Eleanor would kill me. Would brutalize me.

Skip cracks a smile, one that seems a little bit friendly for once. “You know her or something?”

My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster. He doesn’t even know that she’s passed away. A beautiful myth to us all. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I did.”

His eyebrows jump up. He catches my meaning. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “It’s alright.” I don’t believe I have rightful claim to grieving Diane. And yet I ache over her loss.

Skip shifts in his seat. Looks to the band then back to me. Opens his mouth, closes it. Looks back at the band and then back at me again. “After the set, you busy?”

“N-no. Why?”

“Because we can go down to the station tonight if you want.”

---