The Visitor

For two nights straight, she’s come in around 8:00.  She sits down right in front of the stage.  Immediately when the band is done at 11:00, she gets up and leaves.

She doesn’t drink a lot.  Three at most, touristy looking drinks with little umbrellas, one per set. No one in the band has spoken to her during the breaks, and she’s not approached any of them or tried to flag one of them down.

Wrapped in a bright pink boa, she doesn’t look like she’s from around here.  She wears the same short black dress, shiny black knee-high boots, and always carries a small black clutch and a single long pink feather that resembles a quill pen.  Her hair is shoulder length, expensively perfect, a beautiful red color, her skin pale white.

On the third night, she comes in exactly at 8:00.  After the first set, Randy, the guitar player, introduces himself to her.  They appear to have a pleasant conversation.  Then Randy, like the other two band members, moves on to other tables, greeting old friends and welcoming new customers.

Night four, she’s back again.  Same dress, same boa, same long pink feather and black bag.  At the end of the set she gets up to go to the restroom.  She’s in there the whole 20 minutes.  Once the band starts up again, she comes out and sits back down.

At the second break, she gets up and goes to the restroom once more.  When the music starts, she comes back.  It’s as if she doesn’t want Randy, or anyone else, to talk to her.

At the end of the night, she is out of her chair at the very instant the last song ends.

The following night, she isn’t there.  When the band takes its first break, Randy comes to the bar to order a beer.  I ask him about the woman.  He tells me she said she was here on vacation for a few days.

“Did she say where she was from?” I ask.

“No, but she did say she’s a time traveler.  A little weird for my tastes,” he says.

The band is off the next two nights.  When they come back, that first night, she shows up again at 8:00.  At the first break, I pick up my beer and walk over to her table.  I introduce myself and ask if she minds if I join her.  I see Randy rolling his eyes at me from a few tables away.

She’s very soft spoken.  I ask if she’s visiting.  She says yes, that she’s here for a few days.  Her name is Dana.  “Where abouts are you from?” I ask, almost holding my breath.

“Here and there,” she says.  “I’m a time traveler.  Sometimes I come back to here.  Sometimes I go forward to here.”

Not really sure what to say, I simply stare at her.  Before I can think of any kind of follow up, she excuses herself, gets up and goes to the restroom.

The band returns to the stage for the second set.  I sit there, waiting.  She doesn’t come back out.  I ask Laura, one of the servers, if she’d mind popping into the restroom to see if Dana is okay.

Laura comes back to me, says there’s no one in the restroom.  Maybe she’s outside taking a smoke break.  I order another beer and wait.

The next break comes.  Randy sits down at the table, laughing, asks me what’s happened to my date.

I tell him I think that quite a hilarious joke.

“Watch out for that one,” he says, not joking.

At the end of the night, I head over to the parking garage across Au‘ahi Street, shaking my head all the way.  I open the door, and sit down heavily.  It feels a bit like I’m in the Twilight Zone.

Then I see it under the windshield wiper.  I jump out and pick it up, run the pink feather through my fingers, search the area for her.  Nothing. I’ve never seen her again, still wonder how she knew where I parked and which car was mine.

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