I never went to a bar alone until that night in July. Dave Posmontier
was playing piano at the tiny wine bar on the other side of town. I decided to wear my white dress and pulled my long hair back with clips. Called my friend to tell her that I was trying to be brave, that I wanted to hear this jazz artist. Called the bar and talked to a reassuring bartender. He said, “This isn’t a meat market. I will be here if you need me.” I wish I remembered his name. Russ was standing at the end of the bar, his fingers moving non-stop in that fidgety rhythm I would come to know. He could not be still. Another woman sat beside me. The only two women at the bar. When I finally decided to move closer to watch Posmontier play, she said she would save my seat. I swear I was not sure if it was the piano, or Russ I wanted to move toward. After 34 years together, I figured it out.