By the time Mr. Bacchus slid onto the stool next to Ariel, the younger man was halfway through his first mojito, eyes locked on the pianist - a reed thin man in a navy suit, dark hair cut short and severe. He sipped his drink from the wide straw that poked from the top of the slim glass and listened. The green of the mint leaves contrasted nicely with the orange of his bowtie, he'd thought when the bartender slid the mojito across the bartop to him. But that was all forgotten when music began to play - and the music itself was forgotten the instant David's voice reached him through the tinkling of the piano's keys.
With a bright smile, Ariel glanced furtively at the older man next to him. He took in the purple vest over the black t-shirt, the nice jeans, all well tailored, before turning his eyes back to the stage, taking a swig of the mojito before answering.
"Hi," he said with the same grin on his lips. "Not so long. Just gauging our competition here." Ariel spread a hand out toward the crowd and shrugged, laughing. "But even calling them competition is giving them too much credit. So, are you ready to lose to someone half your age, Mr. Bacchus?"