Swinging her hips in a slow, seductive motion was Beatrice. She was dancing alone to the music in front of a small table where an attractive thirtyish woman sat sipping wine. She had an oval face with hooded eyes, slim lips, and skin the color of a harvest moon. Her breasts were full, and, from what I could see under the table, she had thick, shapely legs. To the envy of many at Bowery Bar, Walter strolled over and kissed Beatrice as I stood anxiously behind him.

“You remember my man, right?”

Beatrice received me with a light kiss and a long hug. Then she said, “This is Sonja—the friend I told you about.”

“She talks a lot about you, Walter,” Sonja said, locking eyes with him.

“Likewise,” he replied, and then sat down next to her. After I was introduced I squeezed in on the other side of Sonja as Beatrice went back to her dancing. Sonja and Walter traded endearments and then gazed at Beatrice, the lovely link between them. I watched Sonja laugh, then softly touch Walter’s lips. “Yeah, sweetness,” he murmured. “Yeah.”

Walter’s two-way buzzed. He checked the message and grinned. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Why don’t you two lovely people make friends.” And so we did. I went first: Ex-full-time music critic; author of the critically acclaimed black-music history The Relentless Beat; single; childless; writing a screenplay for Walter’s Idea Factory Productions called One Special Moment. I told my story neatly with an emphasis on my professional résumé.

Sonja, in contrast, took time with all the details, especially the personal ones: Trini immigrant family; raised in Hempstead; Cornell undergrad; New York Law; a day job at Universal Records in business affairs; an IBM executive boyfriend with a crib in Jersey; and a nightlife that had nothing to do with contracts and depositions.

“My boyfriend,” she said at one point, “would love this big-screen TV and this conversation. He’s always watching documentaries on jazz and blues and all that. He probably knows your work.”

“Really,” I replied, not knowing how to respond. “It’s a shame he’s not here.”

She smiled and turned her gaze from me to Beatrice. “Now that’s not what you really think, is it?”

“No, counselor, it isn’t.”

“The truth is always a good thing. How long have you and Walter been friends?”

“Known him fifteen years or so. Way back before his first music videos.”

“So you must have a lot in common.”

This was an encouraging line of questioning.

“As much as good friends do. As much as you and your good friend have in common,” I answered.

“Well, it’s been only two months, but we already share so much.” She had more to say, but Walter walked up to the table.

“Let’s go, team,” he said, gesturing for us to stand. “I have a new recruit.”