Free The Jezebel Remedy by Martin Clark Page B

fret and face a whorish adulterer taunting her from the glass. As she was heading for the door, she did sneak a sidelong glance, couldn’t help peeking, and watched herself until the mirror ended and the tile started and her image disappeared.
    They both got full-tilt drunk at a pricey steak house, ordering a bottle of champagne and then another, and never made it to an entrée, just picked appetizer plates on a whim and didn’t finish any of them. Brett emptied the second bottle into their glasses, dunked it upsidedown in its silver pail, told her there were several bands nearby and asked her if she wanted to hear some music.
    “Talking seriously about music,” she said, her words lush, fulsome, lavish, “with a single man out on the town”—she lifted the last of the champagne but didn’t raise it to her mouth—“is pretty much a first cousin to discussing sex, don’t you think?”
    Brett smiled, his expression happy and cockeyed. “I like that. Probably true. Kind of like sex’s envoy or placeholder. Special trade representative or some such.”
    “Ambassador at large, maybe.”
    He stretched his neck forward, rested his elbow on the table, set his hand underneath his chin. “So what do you like?”
    “I like it all, except, well, I don’t care for…well, I really can’t stand rap, and I hate to say this, living here in this part of the world, but I’m not a fan of the high mountain sound either, you know, hardscrabble bluegrass, Ralph Stanley and all the primitive wailing. Nothing personal, it’s just not for me. Truth be told, Joe’s more into music than I am. Well, more into it kind of clinically, dissecting it, studying it, cutting it to shreds.” She swallowed champagne until none was left. “I’m about tipsy,” she declared. “Wow. I usually don’t drink this much. But, yeah, right, let’s do go somewhere else. I don’t care. You choose. No need to waste this hard-earned buzz.”
    “Great. I agree.” He moved his hand, changed his posture and folded his arms across his chest. “There’s a good jazz band in town. I’ve heard them a couple times.”
    “Oh damn, we don’t have a car. How long will the cab take?”
    Brett winked at her. “I had him wait. He’s here.”
    “Clever. Nice. I like that. Big spender.” She touched her ear, worried she’d lost an earring. She felt it still there. “So you like listenin’ to jazz? Listen
ing
. I forget the ends of my words if I’m too liquored.”
    “I really like Dave Brubeck. Beats rap and banjo hoedowns, right?”
    Lisa insisted that she honor their wager, but Brett asked the server for their check, and while they were waiting for the bill, Lisa’s cell phone went off with “Hey Joe,” and even though she knew the ring tone was her husband’s, she fished and fumbled through her purse and found the phone and saw his name in stark black letters against a luminous background.
    “Speaking of music,” Brett said. “I’ll…I’ll track down our waitress and give you some privacy,” he offered, standing as he spoke. He bumped the edge of their table, causing a water glass to spill. He quickly set it upright. A pile of ice remained, cubes dumped beside a dirty plate.
    “No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m not goin’ to answer it.” She sat back, slumped a little. “What would I say?” She dropped the phone into her purse.
    She scooted only to the middle of the cab’s seat, didn’t completely cross the carpeted ridge above the transmission, and Brett eased in beside her, closing the door as he came. The car accelerated onto a wide avenue. It was dark now, the city candled by streetlights, traffic signals, bar signs with burning neon script and the plodding glow of various window displays, their bulbs illuminating travel posters, antiques, pawned saxophones and guitars, and mannequins wrapped by layers of trendy woolen clothes.
    “You know,” Brett said, “if you don’t want to go to a bar, I have a little