For the first time in 15 years I would see the small town where I had been raised. I had left home at 18 to live in a New York University dorm that overlooked Morningside Park. That education became a springboard onto a Wall Street career.
At thirty three years old I found myself having a mid life crisis. I had been well compensated as a financial analyst for a Wall Street investment banking firm but at the same constant pressure had finally forced me to take a vacation of indefinite duration. With my nerves frazzled, and losing sleep, I had decided to come home to mom and dad.
Living in New York City had been a mixed blessing. I had spent a few years frequenting the lesbian bar scene, and had been laid quite a few times. By the time I turned 25 the Blue Note jazz club in Greenwich Village had become my favorite night spot, especially when a piano player came to town. The fly in the pudding, whom I had met on the gay pride parade route, was Stephanie Holloway.
I could still recall the day when I saw the hot babe with long dark auburn hair in the middle of the East Village street wearing just black undies. Her curvaceous figure with big tits captivated me and her apparent charm proved alluring.
She turned out to be not the best choice of a lover. I guess it was just lust that made me chase her for a date. I worked long hours while she avoided employment but freely spent my hard earned money. Then there were frequent complaints about my music from someone who preferred her excruciatingly boring 1970's disco. I even found myself forced to hire a maid or live in a messy house without so much as a clean skirt or blouse.
Anyway there I was on my way home after giving Stephanie the boot and quitting my job. Returning to my roots would be a welcome change.
On a fairly breezy early autumn day I arrived back in Brighton, a town of about 35 and a half thousand people. I had grown accustomed to living in a city of millions, though a part of me ached for rural America with it's quiet country roads, woodlands, and large individual parcels of land. Pretty much everything that I cared about had been sent on ahead to my parents house via UHaul truck. I knew that mom and dad would have my old bedroom ready for me.
Jessica Trent and I graduated Brighton High class of 1995, though we hardly spoke to each other. She was the cheerleader dating the jocks while I was the openly lesbian girl. She was popular while I was often ridiculed because of my preference.
I had just ordered a coffee with slice of apple pie in one of the town's cheaper restaurants and had been sitting at a table staring out the window for about six minutes when a woman came out from the back room.
"Danielle Rolloson," called the voice from behind.
I turned to see a woman in navy blue slacks with white off the shoulder top and blue flats.
"How are you?" she said.
"Fine," I replied.
"Do you remember me?" she said.
"Not really," I replied. "I haven't been here in 15 years."
"Jessica Trent," she said cheerfully as if happy to see an old friend.
"Oh," I replied.
"Do you mind if I join you?"
"No, I would like some company."
She sat across from me with an aura of goodwill about her. Though highschool had not been a good time for me, I was willing to let bygones be bygones. Besides, I felt as though I was being accepted as a lesbian.
"So bring me up to date," she said.
"I got homesick so I came back here."
" You don't seem happy, Danielle."
Jessica's powers of observation were quite good. I wasn't happy because I was lonely. I had cried myself to sleep the night I finally told Stephanie to hit the bricks, to get lost.
I could have chosen more carefully, I told myself during the long ride from the city. Two years of my life had been wasted on her. Almost anyone I could name would have been better for me. Still, the breakup left me saddened.
"I broke up with my partner."
"That's too bad."
"And I just quit a very high paid job," I added.
"In this economy you quit a high paid job?" she replied.
"I was a financial analyst."
"My finances are in ok shape."
" What are you doing for a living now?" I asked.
I had already guessed, in my mind, that she was probably the boss here. Socializing with a customer while everyone else in the place seemed to be working gave me the hint.
"I'm the manager here."
She seemed content with her occupation so I didn't ask if she liked her job. Instead, I steered the chat in a different direction, or rather, I let the nearby grand piano steer the conversation for me.
"I see you have a band here."
"Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights," she answered.
"What type of music is it?"
"Rock and top 40," she answered.
In my own life I had studied the piano for ten years from age eight and made some good progress. After earning my MBA and finding a job with it, I started lessons again. Listening to a lot of jazz shaped my style. Playing the missing piano part on band recordings helped hone my skill.
"Do you play?" I said.
"Guitar," she answered.
I didn't have any important appointments to keep so I let the waitress pour me more coffee. Meanwhile Jesse and I kept the chat going for a few more minutes. It was light chat, mostly anecdotal, that evoked laughter.
Thursday night brought the crowd into the place as the four piece band took it's place on the stage. The three young men with a female lead singer were friends of Jesse.
After being nagged for a few minutes, she walked up to the stage and picked up her guitar. She began playing a slow soulful blues as if expressing her misery through her instrument. I watched as her fingers glided easily along the guitar's neck.
She had been back to our table for a few minutes when she confessed to me. Suddenly I could understand her non judgmental attitude towards my lifestyle.
