A big banner was being pulled inch by inch up over the University Center entrance. In bold colors it announced:

Ed and Ron tied the four corners securely to the side pillars and we all stood back to inspect it.

"Looks great!" said Ron and Ed agreed. What else could they say? They had designed it. And it did look inviting, if one liked jazz.

I have been the Event Coordinator of the Center for ten years. And until now, I have always avoided Jazz concerts because I simply don’t like jazz. It annoys me with its nervous beats, unpredictable cadences and aimless tunes. The Center has hosted many other notable music concerts: Cajun, renaissance, baroque, chamber. There have been dance recitals, Kodo drumming, performance art pieces and even poetry slams - but never jazz. However my co-workers and many students kept requesting Jazz and I finally agreed. Luckily, I have two assistants who know jazz and who gladly took up the task of lining up notable jazz musicians, both venerable and current. I only had to deal with the logistics of a three day festival.

During the week before the festival, like every event we host, I put in fourteen or sixteen hour days. Something always seems to happen at the last moment. This time our usual sound person was going on vacation, I had to line up a new lighting engineer and the printer delivered the programs with three misspelled names on them. A bit unusual, but not surprising. Some other things just needed looking at to make sure all was well. Peggy had organized a prize drawing, Ron was overseeing the lobby decorations and refreshment table. Everything was fine.

So the evening before the first performance, I told my main assistant, Ed who was high up on a ladder adjusting a wall decoration, that I was leaving early.

"Good idea, Martha, you deserve a break. We’ll finish up, see you tomorrow."

I slung my day pack over my shoulder and headed toward the door. As I pulled the door open and stepped through, I nearly collided with a woman who had been about to enter. She was a good six inches shorter than me, with wild raven hair that shone auburn in the setting sun. Her olive colored skin was porcelain smooth.

"Oh, excuse me!" We both exclaimed. At the same moment, we both stepped back to let the other through. We laughed. Then she motioned inside.

"Is Edward Nolan around?"

"Oh, yes, he’s the guy on the ladder." I said thinking, Ed! He’s done it again! As she passed me in the doorway, I caught a whiff of pure clean soap smell. I watched her go up and speak to Ed. Then I turned to leave again.

"Oh, hey Martha!" Ed called, I turned back. He climbed down from his ladder and gestured, "Here’s one of our musicians, I’d like you to meet." He strode toward me followed by the woman who, I now saw, was carrying a flute case.

"This is Ashki Rae. She’s the flute player scheduled for Saturday. Ashki, this is Martha Brown, our Event Coordinator."

"Pleased to meet you, Martha." She said and smiled up at me as she shook my hand. Whatever she was saying about how glad she was to be here and what a nice center we had was completely outshone by that smile and her intent dark eyes. I smiled back and nodded. Then she was off following Ed on his grand tour. As I watched her go this second time I thought, not too profoundly, - Wow!, then headed out the door.

An hour later, I sat in the Library Coffeehouse with a hot tea in one hand and a pen in the other. The sonnet I had been writing over the last three days had just resolved itself. I felt the rush of small triumph as I wrote down the finishing couplet.

I live a purposely simple life, by myself in a single apartment. My place is an easy bike ride to the University, to stores, to my community garden plot and to this coffee house. And in between working, during commuting, while brushing my teeth or washing dishes, I think up these sonnets. My life has been noted in groups of fourteen lines for the past twenty years. They look tidy on the page, very easily measurable. Occasionally, I’ll send out a group of them to small magazines. A dozen have been published, but mostly they are for my own enjoyment.

Ed talks about his writing, brings in copies of the off-beat journals he’s been published in. He revels in his image as The Writer. Once I confided to him that I wrote sonnets and he said, "Sonnets, wow, I can’t deal with forms and stuff...." and then he reminded me to be sure to come and hear him read at The Owl downtown. I never mentioned the sonnets again.

For me, the sonnets are a hunt, a stalking for the right word and phrase. All for the intense pleasure of completion when it all falls together. Then I type it up, date it and file it. It might be about an event (like a bird spotted on a day hike) or a thought (like hating jazz) or a conversation overheard (coffee shops and grocery stores are good for these), an incident observed (the bicyclist and motorist who got into it over a right hand turn) or a memory (like when I woke up realizing I preferred girls to boys). There are always two or three of these ideas swirling in my mind, always one ready to pluck out and tack down.

I was rereading this newly completed poem when I saw a movement and looked up to see Ashki Rae.

"Ed told me you might be here," she said, "May I join you?"

I nodded, surprised and flattered. She slid into the chair opposite me and set down a fragrant cup of coffee. That smile washed toward me again as she brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. I smiled back, wondering what to say. Then she saw my papers under my hands.

"Do you write poetry or stories?"

"Um, sonnets."

"Wow, that’s a challenge, may I see?"

So I handed her that new, barely-dry-on-the-page effort and watched with trepidation as she read it. She smiled a little as she handed it back.

"You don’t care for jazz much, I guess."

My face turned hot. "Well, no. I was trying to explore why I don’t in the poem. Did it make sense at all?"

"Yes, I can see it. Almost a fear of losing control - it’s understandable. The sonnet’s good. Nothing’s forced in the rhyme."

"Do you read much poetry?" I asked, feeling more relaxed.

"Probably more than the average American. I also like Sci Fi. So tell me, why are you putting on a jazz event if you don’t care for it?"

"Well, it’s not all my "say so", Jazz is popular. My co-workers said it would be a huge hit and it looks like it will be, judging from sales so far. People are coming from all over to hear these artists."

She watched me intently as I spoke. Her wide dark eyes had a confidence and a calmness behind them that I had often wished for myself. I puzzled over just why she might have searched me out. Ashki had spoken a sentence or two before I began hearing the words again.

"...if you just come and have a listen, you might find it more enjoyable. Maybe what you need to hear are live performances. Jazz is best in person, where there’s a real connection from musician to listener. Jazz is almost a state of mind, constantly in flux." She sighed, smiled and sipped her coffee.

It took me a moment to speak, then I said, "I’ll make it a point to listen in." I paused, then looked directly at her. "What time is your performance?"

As if she were expecting that question, she smiled again, "Saturday night, seven thirty to eight."

I suppose life went on around us as we talked about work, and our lives. People sat down or got up and left around us. Outside, the bicycle traffic competed with cars, the Fine Art Theatre sign went on, and beyond the edge of this university town, the full moon rose over the dormant January fields that would hold broccoli, zucchini and rice in the spring.

Two hours later, I walked her back to her motel room.

"Would you like to come in for a bit? Tell me more about your garden?"

I was very tempted, it had been, well years, since a woman had invited me in like that. But I was also tired and not as young and I had been then.

"I’d love to, but I really must get some sleep." She was still watching me, leaning against the doorsill. I looked down at my old leather walking shoes. Somehow, probably from one of the decorations, they had gotten red glitter sprinkled across the toes. I prodded myself to say, "Maybe after your performance, dinner perhaps?" I glanced back to her, inwardly cringing at my awkwardness.

"I’d really like that." She said in a lowered voice, sounding completely sincere "You get some good sleep now - you’ve got a challenging job ahead. Good night."

I walked away and down the stairs in a daze. On the open sidewalk, a chill wind pulled at my jacket and made me wish I had my hat. I couldn’t believe this was happening. It was years since I dated anyone, and truth to tell, I didn’t miss it much. After the wild and tempestuous two years with Claire, I just wanted to be by myself in my own apartment with my own dishes well out of reach from Claire’s temper. I wanted the cupboards stocked with the foods I preferred, I wanted to set my own hours, not be bothered by light or noise from a TV, not have a car to pay for, just a quiet, calm life.

I let myself in and hung the keys on their hook. I switched on the living room light and closed the drapes. I disliked the feeling, at night, of being possibly looked at inside without being able to see outside. It was ten o’clock now. Too late to read another chapter in the novel that lay on the arm of my chair. But once in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of my aloneness welled up as they did occasionally. I sighed. Yes, I missed the intimacy of a woman lying next to me - the talking over the day, holding each other, the caresses. I turned over and reminded myself that not having a lover was a small price to pay for peace and quiet. But even before I had finished that thought, I was thinking of Ashki Rae, her eyes, her hands, her voice and that inviting smile. I hadn't even known her 12 hours.

The next day, in a last break before the doors would open for January Jazz, Ed laughed out loud at my story.

"Let me get this straight, pardon the pun, you walk her back to her motel room, she invites you in and you, instead, go home to get some SLEEP? What sort of lesbian are you?"

"Geez, Ed, keep your voice down," We hold no secrets, but I think he somehow gets a charge out of having me as a friend and co-worker. "Yes, I went home, it was going for ten and I had to be here, may I remind you, at seven! Besides, I hardly know her."

"Oh, I see. And when was the last time you had a date?"

"Five years. But I’ve got one tomorrow night." I glanced at him, surpressing a grin. "OK?"

"OK." He gave me a thumbs up. "Well, it’s show time. I see the ushers are in their places..."

The doors opened. I stood at the door taking tickets, as I often do. I like the simpleness of a job like this after all the complexities of planning. When all the audience was seated, I made my way to the lighting booth to get a view of the stage. All very nice. The applause thundered off the walls.

That evening, I did not see Ashki at all. The next morning, I spotted her once talking among a group of five or six other women. Again in the afternoon, she crossed the lobby with a tall gray-haired man. This time she saw me too and gave me a small wave. Before I knew it, it was 7:15 PM and I asked Peggy to take over for me at the door. I slipped into the darkness of the auditorium and stood by the back row. A trumpet player was finishing up his solo. He wound down only to be joined by the rest of his combo who all spun off into a finale that was too loud for my ears. The audience was on their feet. The white noise of clapping and whistling was even louder than the band.

There was a brief well organized change as the stage helpers got the combo off and pushed the grand piano on for Ashki’s accompanist. Then she walked on, followed by the gray-haired man who sat at the piano. She wore black pants and a shimmery silver top. I think there may have even been silver woven in her hair. The lights sparkled off her flute as she raised it to her lips. She was truly radiant.

The tones began low and somber. The piano balanced the keener sounds well. As she played, flashing up scales and down, she bowed and bent like a poplar sapling in the spring winds. The flute glittered and flashed. I glanced at a program someone had left on a seat. Her two pieces were titled: 'Mountain High Running' and 'The Whole Room’s Empty When You’re Not There.' I couldn’t figure out why they were titled that, nor could I follow their progress. It seemed to me that I had been set adrift in a foreign land where everyone spoke a complicated language called Jazz, but me. I listened as hard as I could, trying to make an effort. Now there was something almost like a melody, but it was interrupted every few bars by high tweets or trills. Then in came the piano and both musicians seemed to dodge and dart around trees in a very large plain, at random. I let the effort go out of me and just watched her until she became still, holding onto the last lonesome note until it stopped. She lowered her flute. The audience went wild, again, and I quietly slipped back out into the brightly lit lobby.

Fifteen minutes passed. I straightened up lobby chairs and began wondering if I had made a mistake by asking her to dinner. I wandered around the lobby, answered some questions, and talked with Peggy. I was straightening up brochures detailing upcoming events when Ashki walked up. She had tossed a black shawl over her shoulders. Small protection against the January winds, I thought, but stunning.

"You look beautiful." I found myself saying, a little too seriously.

"Thanks, so do you. Shall we go eat?" She smiled up at me and led the way out.

We decided on The Oasis, a Moroccan restaurant. This was as exotic as our small city got, and Ashki deserved exotic. We were only the second couple in the place and were immediately seated on cushions opposite each other, a low wooden table between us. The waiter, and probably the owner, brought out a large silver vessel and a small pitcher. As we held our hands over the silver bowl, he poured warm water over them, explaining the symbolic washing before a meal. We dried our hands on thick warm towels, then sat back to choose our food. She must have noticed me moving slightly to the Moroccan drums on the CD that was playing.

"Do you like this music?"

I looked up from the menu to meet her eyes. "Yes, I do. I love folk music of all sorts."

"So do I. This is the sort of music that makes me want to dance naked in the moonlight. Very sensuous don’t you think?" She took a bite of the cumin flavored bread and chewed slowly.

I was nearly speechless. "Oh, yes, I agree." I glanced back to the menu. "How about the cous-cous and lentils? And we must have the mint tea."

The tea was served in individual silver pots packed with fresh spearmint and filled with boiling water. An embroidered pot holder encased each handle. The waiter poured a thin stream of tea into a small glass, raising the pot up and up until he broke the stream off about two feet above the glass. We watched rapt with curiosity. The air, he explained, brought out the flavor of the mint.

We ate slowly enjoying the flavors. Sampling from each others’ plates, we compared interesting restaurants we’d visited: Basque, Chinese, Ethiopian. I watched her unabashedly now, admiring the way the dark waves of her hair framed her forehead. And I could sense, when I was not looking at her that she was watching me too.

"Where do you live, Ashki?" I finally asked, over another freshly poured cup of tea.

"Only about two hours from here, over the mountains." She gestured east. "I don’t get out this way too often. Most of the gigs I play at are down south or up in the northwest. And I still have to balance my work schedule with my playing schedule."

It had not occurred to me that she might have a 'real' job.

"What do you do?"

She gave a slight laugh, "I’m a librarian at the Main Library. Shocking, I know. Sometimes, I have a hard time believing it myself."

I laughed. "Well, nearly everyone I know is some form of intellectual or at least they wish they were."

After the meal, The waiter brought out another pot. This one, he told us was filled with orange blossom water. Gently, he sprinkled it over our outstretched hands. We each rubbed our hands together. The scent of flowers filled the air.

Outside, the air was colder than ever.

"Feels like a storm is on its way," I said as she pulled the shawl closer around her. I zipped my jacket closed and turned up the collar. We walked fast. When we were nearly back to her motel, she asked the question I’d been avoiding.

"How did you like the performance?" She glanced at me.

I didn’t want to lie to her. "I’m afraid I still don’t get it." I looked down right into her eyes, "I really did listen. I tried to follow it..."

She grabbed my arm and spun me to face her.

"You can’t just get it by trying and listening, Martha! You’ve got to let go and feel it right here." And she slipped her hand under my jacket and around to my back. She pulled me closer with the other hand, then ran the edge of her thumb down my spine. I exhaled involuntarily and shivered.

"Yes," she said grinning, "That’s about it, now come upstairs."

I followed still shivering from the surprise, and thinking vaguely that that was not Jazz at all, but plain old primal feeling. Strange and wild music ran behind my ears. All pattern and order seemed to fall away from me. She led me in and turned on the light in the kitchenette, but did not move to pull the blinds. She unwrapped her shawl and tossed it on the chair. She came to me, unzipped my jacket and had it off me before I could say a word. I wanted to speak but knew now to stay still.

And when she slid her strong fingers through my hair and pulled my face down to kiss her, did I care that the kitchen light was on and all the shades were open? Not at all.