Page 87 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I daydream about Eleanor quite a bit, but I have to admit, I dream about her a whole lot more often since we’ve started sleeping together. How can a man not when he’s got the perfect woman for a girlfriend?

Today’s fantasy is taking her on a road trip. Not in my car, in my dad’s old pickup. It’s just been sitting in the driveway at the house, unattended to. It probably needs a lot of maintenance at this point, but it would be worth it. I’m imagining hours on the open road with Eleanor, playing all the greatest hits on the radio, enjoying the tranquil scenery. We could go all the way out to the Grand Canyon if she could hack it that long. Seventeen hours ain’t but a two day’s drive if we’re being generous.

And boy, I’d like to be generous. Hit all the stops in between here and there. Tourist traps and natural wonders. Take it slow and easy.

We could even go camping. I’ve never asked Eleanor if she’s the camping type, and I’d hazard a guess, but she is a constant surprise.

That’s where my fantasy deviates to something more untoward and much more distracting. Having Eleanor under the stars while camping. Fuck.

That’s heaven.

Of course, she’ll probably want to bring the dog. That will put a cramp in my style, but I’ll make do.

“Wyatt.”

I snap out of my fantasy and find myself face to face with Jen, the owner of the venue where I’m working. From below the brim of her baseball cap, she eyes me with a raised brow. “You good?”

I push off the stack of amps I’ve been leaning on. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

“You were in la-la land for a bit there,” she says, swirling her hand in the air a little too close to my face.

“Naw. Me? La-la land?” I pshaw and wave my hand before straightening my suspenders.

Jen grabs one of the suspenders and snaps it against my chest. “Haven’t seen you in these in a while.”

I don’t tend to wear them a lot after I had some out-of-towners claim that I was trying to bring hipster back—as if it ever left Austin. Usually, I can’t be swayed by those who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. But the thought of being compared to memes of dudes with handlebar mustaches, bowler hats, and a “Shhh . . .” tattoo on their finger was enough to scare me out of wearing suspenders. There is one reason to break them out again, though.

“Uh, yeah, my girlfriend thinks they’re cute,” I say, again straightening out the suspenders since Jen so unceremoniously put them out of place.

“Oooo,” she cajoles. “Your girlfriend. Did you hear that, Whit?”

Jen’s wife perks her head up from behind the soundboard, light glinting off her septum piercing. “What?”

“Wyatt’s got a girlfriend.” Jen reaches up and ruffles my hair.

“Careful!” I exclaim, ducking away from her. Jen and I go way back. She caught me sneaking into her bar when I was nineteen to see an impromptu Roky Erickson gig. She’s one of the only people who won’t lose a hand for messing up my hair.

Jen grins, putting her hands on her hips. “No wonder you’re all starry-eyed. You’re in love.”

“Not—ha! No, not—” My face is getting hot.

“Wyatt’s in love!” Whit calls, cupping her hands around her face.

The few guys I have on this job all start snickering. They’ve been privy to my lovesickness for a while now and it always tickles them when people point it out.

“Not in love. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Jen snaps at Randy who is in the middle of coiling an unused cord. “Randy?”

Randy smiles. “Very much in love.”

“Fuck off, Randy,” I grumble.

Jen and Whit’s bar is an easy venue. Unfussy. Bar, folding tables and chairs, a stage. Nothing much, but homey as hell. Jen and Whit are always working on something, which sometimes does more harm than good. Gotta be careful about zoning out, or else Whit futzes too much with the balance on the soundboard, and Jen gets overly chatty with the artists. Tonight is an old country stalwart on the scene who gets a little ornery if you mess with his preshow routine of drinking malt whiskey at the bar while reading from the same book of Edna St. Vincent Millay poems that he’s had since the ‘80s.

Artists, man.

“Bring her tonight,” Jen says with a forceful shake of my arm.

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