You have a fan.

Taking a seat, you sip your beer, watching the band play and feeling the flush of heat from your performance. A little bit of embarrassment, you acknowledge, but a huge adrenaline rush playing in front of strangers, and getting applauded for it. Very much like your best days in baseball, and a reminder of one of the things you miss about leaving the game.

You're leaning back against the wall, watching Christina rip through 'Good Morning Little School Girl', with lyrics modified to 'boy' when someone takes a seat at the table and puts a fresh beer in front of you. Slightly startled you look up to see an attractive blonde grinning at you. She's older, probably in her mid-thirties at least but dressed like she's in her early twenties.

"I thought you might need that," she shouts to be heard over the music. "The bartender said that's what you're drinking."

You nod thanks and pick up the beer, taking a sip as you look at her, automatically cataloguing what you see. No wedding ring, several buttons of her top open to show a flash of black lace bra, a hungry look in her eyes. You've seen the same look before during your baseball career. In bars much like this one after games, where lonely women tried to hold back middle age by picking up a young ball player.

You did your share of them, you think, and they were even easier than the younger ones who cooed invitations at you.

"You were fantastic!" she shouts, touching your arm and letting her hand linger there. "I loved the energy when you played! So great!"

"Thanks," you shout back. "And thanks for the beer."

"It's the very least I can do!" she answers with an inviting smile, bending forward to show off more cleavage. "I'm Marilyn. Do you live in town?"

You shake your head, not volunteering anything. You notice Christina casting occasional glances at you from the stage, a sardonic smile quirking her lips at the tableau of you and the older blonde.

"Are you with one of them?" Marilyn asks in the relative quiet between songs, nodding to the stage.