Page 24 of Knot Just for Show

My name and introduction is on the tip of my tongue, when suddenly—the mystery woman’s hum opens into softly sung words,

“Lullaby of birdland that’s what I—always hear, when you sigh,”

she continues on singing the old George Shearing jazz standard and I can tell that she isn’t singing in her full voice.

On the contrary, she’s muted herself so that her understated performance is as demure as possible. Still, her voice has a resonant sweetness, sonorous and rich.

Leaning forward, straining to hear her better–I accidentally knock my water glass on the nearby low table with my knee–making a loud clattering sound. The mystery woman stops singing instantly.

“Hello? Is there someone there?”

Damn it! I broke the spell. I gave myself away.

“Uh, Hi–yes, hello!” I struggle to collect myself.

“Oh jeez, I’m always so embarrassing. Listen to me, sitting in here singing to myself like a little kid. I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she apologizes, obviously flustered.

“Absolutely not! You sounded great. A little quiet, but great!” I compliment her, hoping that a little flattery might ease the awkwardness.

“Thank you, that’s very nice of you to say.” She does her best to take the compliment, but it’s immediately clear she doesn’t have much practice with taking praise gracefully.

The little devil on my shoulder says something about how we couldteachher to get better at taking praise, but I remind myself—and the devil on my shoulder—that I don’t even know her name. Even if my musician's soul is already most of the way to down bad just from that voice of hers.

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” I do my best to sound casual.

“Dad likes to play music. He taught me piano, and a little guitar. He loves jazz. I grew up listening to a lot of old standardsand torch songs. I can’t even read music,” she answers without pretense.

“You sound great for someone who isn’t formally trained,” I lob another compliment in her direction.

“Are you a musician?” she handily sidesteps my admiration, deflecting to me.

“I am. A multi-instrumentalist and a producer. That’s all I can say for right now,” I offer cryptically.

“Oho, alright. We gotta keep it confidential for now, I get it. Still, that’s pretty cool,” she offers nonchalantly, but there’s an underlying tension to her clipped words.

“I’m not trying to sound like a showoff or anything. I realize it might sound like I’m being a bit of a dickhead since I’m like—being selectively vague about my job before we’ve actually introduced ourselves,” I find myself compensating to even out the emotional temperature in the situation. Classic delta M.O. “I’m Ash, by the way.” I wait, allowing her to make an introduction.

“I’m Ursula. Don’t worry about it—you don’t sound like a dickhead—if anything I’m the one who’s a little butthurt that I’m chatting with someone who has managed to make a career in music after I myself have been an abject failure,” she laughs.

I’m more than a little surprised by her confession.

“Sounds to me like you just didn’t get in front of the right people—with a voice like yours,” I do my best to make my words a balm for her wounded pride, but I’m not sure what else to say without possibly digging a deeper hole.

“How did you get into music professionally, Ash?” Ursula deftly takes another hard turn into what she obviously feels is safer territory for discussion. Or maybe she thinks I’m one of those guys who prefers to talk about himself.

I hope it’s not because she thinks I’m one of those kinds of dudes. “Uh, well–I kind of started DJing parties in collegebecause I like to. I just kind of kept being in the right place at the right time—so my gigs suddenly started getting bigger and bigger until suddenly, a really big fish—like a fish bigger than the whole pond that I was livin’ in, showed up and asked me to work on their new single. They liked it, so that became an entire album and so on…” I trail off, realizing that my attempt at a humble explanation had somehow started to sound like a brag fest.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but that’s really awesome.” Her compliment sounds genuine, if a bit strained.

“So, what kind of music are you into?” I ask, mimicking her hard redirection tactic to move away from talking more about myself.

“Listening-wise? Or what kind of music do I like playing or making?” she asks for clarification.

“Both.” I kick my legs over the arm of the sofa and lay down across the seat cushions, the overhead light too bright through my white blonde lashes—so I close my eyes and listen patiently for the sound of Ursula’s voice.

“As far as listening goes—it’s going to sound cliche, but I listen to everything. Classical, Pop, Blues, Hip-hop, Cambodian-Psychedelic-Rock, Nu-Disco you name it, I listen to it. Though, admittedly, I don’t listen to very much Country.”

“Cambodian-Psychedelic-Rock!?” I snort an incredulous laugh.

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