Perfection #3 by Claire Adams

eyes because conductors frowned on
that sort of thing. But when it was just me, it was just me. Towards the end of
the passage I had selected, I opened my eyes. The shopkeeper was wiping tears
away and Bullet had a strange look on his face. I had seen many of his
expressions, self-confidence, his proud demeanor, but never this one. What was
it? Had I impressed him or did my playing turn him off? Who knew and who cared?
I played the last note and allowed it to hang in the air before I returned the
instrument carefully to its case.
    “You must be a professional. That was the loveliest
thing I’ve heard in a long time. Thank you my dear for stopping by and sharing
your gift with me today. Would you like to take this home with you? It seems to
like you.” She rubbed away more tears; I could tell that the words were sincere
but I decided against purchasing the instrument. Not because I didn’t love it—I
did! But it didn’t belong to me. It belonged to some lost child, somewhere.
    “No, I don’t think I will, although it is a lovely
piece. I will take those lace gloves in the front window. I have a friend who
loves English lace.”
    The shopkeeper smiled and brought me the selection I
wanted. She offered to gift wrap them and placed them in a white box with a
gold bow. “Come back soon,” she said as we stepped out of the store.
    Still quiet, Bullet walked beside me. What was he
thinking? I reached over and took his hand. “Should I have played Kansas?”
    “No, I think what you played was perfect. I had no
idea you played like that. I mean, I knew you were orchestra-quality but the
way you pulled music out of that old violin; it was like you pulled magic out of the air. I was impressed.”
    “Thank you. It was a fine violin.”
    “Why didn’t you buy it? You seemed to love it.” We
walked up the sidewalk, passing shop after shop, not really looking at them. I
think we both just wanted to be together a little longer. How could I explain
this to him?
    “Yes, I did love it but I didn’t really need it. I
have three already and in a way, it seemed kind of sad. Just think, some child
that’s not even here anymore used to play it, maybe even loved it. I don’t
know—it just didn’t seem like it belonged to me.”
    He said he understood but he was quiet afterwards. “Hey, how about that food? I’m starving!” We needed a change
of subject and a change of scenery. “Let’s head back to the pub.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. They have a few restaurants on
the other side of the street. You wouldn’t rather go there?” Bullet seemed to
waffle over going to the Blue Lake Pub.
    “No! I want the true Blue
Lake experience. If this is where everyone goes, I want to go too!”
    “Okay then! Blue Lake Pub it is.” We chit-chatted
about the things we saw along the way back to the pub. It was a nice walk and
it had turned out to be a bright, sunny day. I was glad we had good weather for
this trip. It was dark when we first walked in. It took my eyes a few minutes
to refocus to the surrounding light. It was informal dining and I found us a
table near the back of the pub. I liked people watching. Bullet’s phone rang
again. Darn it! I wished Page would stop calling him and leave him with me just
for a little while longer. He examined it. “Damn, I have to take this. It’s Dr.
Huffington. Will you order me a diet soda and some chicken tenders?”
    I understood that he could not blow off a colleague.
“Sure. No problem.”
    Bullet stepped back outside, disappearing into the white
sunlight. Eventually, after I read the menu at least three times, a server came
over. She looked to be in her late twenties with jet black hair that she wore
in an Egyptian bob. Naturally, her eyeliner was Cleopatra- ish and her lips were bold red. Her hair and makeup style seemed to clash with the
pub’s uniform, black shorts and white t-shirt. “What can I get you two?”
    Okay, no “Hi! Welcome to the Blue Lake Pub” or
anything?