Page 6 of Lost Love on 6th Street
Something about her.
“I’m Eleanor.”
Something about Eleanor.
“Well, Eleanor, let me take you to The Lone Star.”
We walk side by side, the conversation stilted with the newness of our connection. I’m not on my game, not my best self. “So, where are you from?” I ask.
“Chicago.”
“Chicago? And you haven’t melted?”
“We have hot summers in Chicago,” she says through a laugh.
“Great music town,” I say.
She nods. “Oh, obviously.”
“I mean, if I didn’t love Austin so much, I’d consider taking things there. Maybe Seattle, although that’s more of a dream of the nineties than anything.”
“Ah . . . Nirvana fan?” she asks.
I decide to spare her the ramblings of a music addict. “You know, that scene feels . . . mythological almost.”
As we walk, the seas of people seem to part for us without any effort.
“So, what brought you here?”
“Work,” she says.
When she doesn’t offer more in explanation, I bring it upon myself to pry. “Ah. What kind of work?”
Eleanor holds up her camera. “I’m a photo archivist at the Reeder Music Library.”
“No way.”
“Way,” she says. “At least temporarily. My contract is only for three months.”
“You didn’t like Chicago?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I love Chicago. I went to school there . . . so it was time for a change.”
I’m kind of jealous of her. Though I’ve never had an impulse to leave my home turf, there’s a what-if about the world beyond. The past however many years have been all about my job, not about the adventure of experience.
“Who knows if Austin will be my landing pad? I’m trying it on for size,” she says.
And what a nice size that is.
“Actually, that’s why I’m interested in The Lone Star. Because I saw something at work, and I just wanted to check it out.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, lemme—here, I’ll show you.”
I feel bad for making her keep walking as she roots around in her bag, but I’m worried that Fried Polyester’s manager might rip my head off. Twenty-two-year-olds have no respect, and they also have no shame. They let it rip when they’re mad.
“Ah, here it is.” She pulls out a crisp piece of paper and holds it out in front of me since I can’t hold it. “I saw this and, I don’t know, my boss said I should toss it, but . . .”