Page 54 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“I bet most of these folks came here just to tell the story later.” He slid the menu toward Ricki. Leaning their heads toward each other, they scanned the cocktail list: Triangle of Love. Sunday Undie. Banana (Hammock) Daiquiri. Well Hung.

The waiter returned, his spindly, hairy legs looking so vulnerable. “Cocktail? Fine day for an Ass-erol Spritz! I should’ve mentioned that, legally, you must remove your pants to stay.”

“No thanks,” said Ricki. “We’re intentionally trying to keep our pantsontoday.”

The waiter scratched his chin, exposing a#BLMwrist tattoo. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to do this, but follow me. And keep your eyes to yourself.”

Eyes trained on the floor, Ezra and Ricki trailed the waiterthrough the restaurant and into the backyard. And there, before them, was a snow globe brought to life. The pandemic-era globe was decorated with ski-chalet-style features: twinkly lights, a white shag rug, a rustic picnic bench, and cozy throw blankets. It was magical.

“It’s yours for the hour, if you want it,” said the pants-less waiter.

Oh, they wanted it. Ricki and Ezra took their seats inside their own private bubble, pants on, and the waiter left them to grab some drinks.

“We better tip him good,” said Ezra. “He saved our lives.”

“A true ally. Did you see the BLM tat on his wrist?”

“I did,” he acknowledged mildly. “The gesture’s appreciated. I’m just… tired. Inventing slogans to justify your humanity, again and again, is depressing. ‘Black Lives Matter’ was ‘Black Power’ was ‘A Black Man Was Lynched Yesterday.’ Feels likeGroundhog Day.”

She agreed. “Think of the protest songs. There’s one every decade. Billie sang ‘Strange Fruit’ in the ’30s. Sam Cooke wrote ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’ in the ’60s.”

“Marvin wrote ‘What’s Going On’ in the ’70s. NWA wrote ‘Fuck tha Police’ in the ’80s. And on and on.” Ezra sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve lived through so much pointless suffering. I’ve lost so many people. It takes a toll.”

Ricki eyed the twenty-eight-year-old man across from her. They were the same age, but he seemed so worldweary. What had he seen?

And, God help her, there it was: Ricki was drawn to this secret tragedy of Ezra, the mystery, the tangible sadness. His unknowable depths.

“Well, the world may be in shambles around us,” said Ricki, ever optimistic, “but we’re still creating through it. We’ll always have art, love, stories, adventures, beauty…”

“Flowers,” he said with a grin.

“Pianos.” She grinned back. “Can I be horribly nosy for a second?”

“Go ahead,” he said, his voice an invitation. “Do your worst.”

“How does a freelance pianist afford to drop thousands on art before he’s even thirty?”

“No big secret, just good investments. And songwriting credits.”

“Yeah? Anything I know?”

“Hmm.” He plucked at his full bottom lip, thinking. “Do you listen to any big band tunes? Bebop? Blues? Jazz?”

“Well, not really. I’m more of a hip-hop, pop, R&B girl.”

“And where do you think all that comes from?”

“What you’re not going to do is mansplain the history of twentieth-century music to me, apop culture scholar.”

Guilty, he chuckled, his teeth so pretty and white against his rich skin.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Ricki. “I respect all those influences, but I prefer new shit. Sometimes, when I hear early artists—blues, for example, like those 1930s Robert Johnson recordings—I appreciate the artistry, but it sounds creaky.”

“I get it. The first model may not be the flashiest, but it’s the smartest. Take the internet. Sure, it changed the world. But the telegraph is its great-granddaddy, andthatwas smarter.Thatwas the unfathomable leap. Before that, information traveled as fast as some fella on a horse.”

Ricki blinked slowly, resting her chin on her palm. Why was it that every new thing she learned about Ezra, every door he opened to her, made her fall harder?

It just isn’t possible, she thought,to be this hungry for a person.

---