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THE ROOT

VANESSA

T he hours in between the meeting and the concert went by relatively quickly, thank goodness.

They window shopped the cute boutiques in the area, ate a quick, relatively informal dinner at an open-air restaurant with beautiful lighting, and talked about casual topics.

Work, current events, nothing deep or personal.

Bobby seemed to be feeling them out, as was Zoe, their eyes noting every time Santino touched her, the way he draped his arm behind her on her seat.

And she enjoyed all of it. Yes, partially because it felt good to be part of a couple again, and yes, because Zoe was clearly bothered by it.

But if she had to admit it to herself, it simply felt good to be with Santino like this again.

Fun, easy. The sad tension of Upton, Garcia he’d talk shit about someone to their face if he didn’t like them but would speak highly of those he did admire behind their back.

“I’m actually a neonatologist. I work on newborns with heart conditions.”

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t know there was a difference,” Virgil said after a pause. Still smiling, he gestured at Ling. “You and Ling might have a lot in common. She works for a company that produces fake hearts.”

“Artificial hearts,” Ling corrected with a gentle touch on his arm.

“Anyway, drinks, drinks, drinks,” Virgil exclaimed, signaling the waitstaff to come over and start taking orders.

“You know what? I’m gonna bust in your box with you guys, if that’s alright.

I was supposed to sit with these stiffs from Vancouver to talk business, but I have a feeling seeing the show with you will be a whole lot more fun. ”

“Hell yeah,” Santino responded, but mercifully restrained himself from following it up with a whoop.

By the time Panthro came on stage, they’d all consumed a few shots and were well on their way to lit.

The T-shaped stage was outfitted with the usual turntables, computers, and amps, but there was also a full drum kit in the back, stands with guitars propped on them, and of course, Panthro’s eight-stringed bass guitar, a rarity to play even for the most technically proficient musicians.

Behind the stage was a huge mechanical black panther face whose mouth could open and close. Its eyes glowed neon red. It would have been ominous under other circumstances, but everyone who was a fan knew Panthro took his name from a character in an old ‘80s cartoon.

The excitement in the downtown venue was bubbling below and around them in the other tiers. Smoke funnels drifted upward into the air, infusing it with the dank scent of herbs blending with sweeter oils.

“We’re gonna get fucked up just breathing in here,” Santino said in her ear, and she laughed, nodding.

Then Panthro, with his short tawny dreads, George Clinton-esque funkadelic sunglasses and a loose-fitting fringed shirt, walked onto the stage and picked up the bass as the crowd went wild, clapping and whistling at him.

He spoke to the audience briefly, then commenced the set.

The only other people on stage were techs or other musicians, no gyrating dancers, no one doing flips.

It was purely about the music, the artistry, the sheer talent the man exuded as he sang and played his own eclectic blend of progressive jazz, hip hop, R she’d hoped they would have had another fun memory made together, but the Santino surprise must really have ruined it for him.