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“Why do you like the Blues?” she asked in a tone making him believe she wanted an answer.

A beautiful woman had asked him a thoughtful question, not a dumb question like who or what do you like, but why do you like the blues. She seemed to want to know the answer. He was amazed. “It is real. Those guys didn’t hide anything.”

She smiled. He did not know if she was impressed or amused a white guy liked the Blues because it was ‘real.’ She was beautiful. Her skin was mocha. He did not know what color mocha was, but he was sure her skin was mocha. The contrast of her red lips and her mocha face made him recall the beautiful faces he had seen. She was on the list. Her body looked like a woman’s body should, muscle and fat in the right places. She was real.

He primed this conversation. He asked the easy, “Why do you like the Blues?”

She answered too quickly. “My father listened to the Blues. He indoctrinated me. He said it was our heritage. I hated it. I thought it was primitive compared to modern R and B. I guess I am rediscovering my heritage…My father died a couple of months ago.” She did not want to reveal the last sentence, but she did.

“I am sorry,” he could not decide if she wanted him to leave her alone. She did not look sad. She was not crying. He thought of telling her how his father loved bluegrass, how he hated it, and how he learned to accept it, but that was cliché. He thought her first question was a test. He usually did the testing. Maybe this time he was being tested. She was intelligent. He could push a little. “All music is primitive. It is emotional. It is about wanting. It is about primitive wants. Some music just voices these wants better.” He could not believe he had let that tirade go.

“I know,” she replied. “Some people do not understand music. They claim to like all kinds of music.” Her body language emphasized the stupidity of the claim. “But, they do not understand what they are listening to. They cannot articulate what a good song means, because they cannot define what a good song is.”

He mumbled, “Rand.”

“Yes. People refuse to confront their tastes and preferences. Who is John Galt?” She raised her shoulders and eyebrows to add emphasis.

He was in love. He wanted to kiss those wonderful lips. He wanted to make love to her. It was the perfect answer. He hated the subjectivists surrounding him. He disliked those who listened to everything but knew nothing about what they listened to.

He looked her straight in the eye, he thought when he looked into a woman’s eyes he had magical powers, “That was the most intelligent thing that I have ever heard in Wal-Mart.” It had a hint of humor, but it was also true. There was no hyperbole. A woman with her sensibilities would understand.

She looked him straight in the eye. He remembered why he had always been scared of black women. Their confidence was more genuine than white women. A white woman would not have had the courage to carry on this conversation. They would have shrunk into the little girl they were trained to be. White women were the ones claiming to like all types of music. A beautiful woman he might have a chance with was staring straight into his eyes, and he was rightfully scared.

His grandfather would be rolling over in his grave. No he would not, beautiful women transcended race. He wondered if her father was tossing and turning at his daughter’s thoughts.

“Thank you.” She smiled. She quickly picked up a Lightin’ Hopkins CD.

He went with a live Muddy Waters’ CD.

They both continued shopping.