The band was surprisingly good for a modern jazz group. Still, Sonja was glad the bar was distant enough to afford some quiet.
"Martini please. Gin." It felt like a sophisticated evening, she thought, absently tapping the barely audible complex rhythm on the bar.
"They're not bad," said a voice on her right. She turned to see a well-dressed, dark haired man. He watched her fingers drumming, then turned to face her.
"Hi, I'm Martin. Martin Riviera."
She felt mischievous. "I'm Sonja. Sonja Papermoon."
"Paper Moon?"
"Yes, my parents are Ella Fitzgerald fans. Sonja Papermoon, sailing over a cardboard sea..."
"So you have a sister named Summer Thyme, I suppose?"
"The man knows is music." she laughed. "It's Sonja Pepperidge."
"Sonja Pepperidge..." He sang it to the tune. "Yes, I can see it."
"What did your parents sing to you, when you were a child?"
"Sing? No, they weren't singers. Mostly they called me ¡Martín!" he trilled the r, his face wearing a disapproving gaze.
A new rhythm wafted over. The band were playing Mack the Knife, the singer doing her best Fitzgerald impression.
"Surely this is a sign we should dance?" Martin offered his hand.
She laughed and took his hand in hers.
#wss366 #jazz #microfiction