It was another tear-stained night in the French Quarter, heartbreak hanging over every street like a grieving fog. There was already a row of shot glasses on the bar in front of me, drained like fallen soldiers, but I still had sorrows to drown.
It was Amateur Night, when every cab driver with the ten-spot to get his horn out of hock took his turn in the shadows of Parker and Gillespie. A beady-eyed quartet shuffled on stage; with luck, they’d only butcher a few numbers before slinking away in shame. I ordered another shot and braced myself for the worst.
But then they started to play…
Like coolsville, Amy F.