Lost Love, and He Ain’t Lookin’ for It, Neither

I wanna be as detached as the pianny player. When there’s some chick caterwauling right behind you about something or other, he’s not about to turn around or stop doing his taxes in his head, or whatever he’s doing. I especially like when he turns his head towards the audience, and shoots them a look that lets them know they’re not quite the class of listeners he’s accustomed to.

Now, please don’t confuse the piano player’s mien and the bartender’s deportment. Our hero massaging the horse teeth is detached, indifferent to anyone’s opinion, and calculating how many minutes it will take him to walk home after the gig. The bartender is just catatonic. Or maybe stuffed and displayed, it’s not clear which.

When the diva intones, “nunca fuiste mio,” Spanish for “You were never mine,” our intrepid accompanist slowly turns to the audience, lifts one eyebrow a millimeter, and sets his great stone face into its perfect No Shit, Lady expression. It’s glorious. Keely Smith-level stuff.