The Parisian streets were slicked with rain as I walked down to one of the many bars.
I suppose I should tell tou who I am. My name is Clytemnestrea. I was born in Sparta, Greece, around 1,000 B.C. I am sorta small (barely over five feet), with long brown hair and blue eyes. If you want to know why I'm still around, the truth is I'm Immortal. I can die, but only if my head is cut off.
Anyway, back to the action. I was going to the bar because I had a gig. I'm a jazz singer.
I walked into the crowded bar, wearing my slinky green dress with dark green gloves that went up to my elbows.
The band was warming up in preparation for my set. For my first selection, I chose a little song called "Fever," which goes something like this:
Never know how much I love you
Never know how much I care.
When you put your arms around me
I get a fever that's so hard to bear
And so on and so forth. I was well into my second song when I felt what some people call "the Buzz," but what I call a Prescence. Much more elegant. don't you think?
I looked around for my possible foe. Who I saw greatly surprised me.
I finished my set and approached the tall, dark-haired man.
"Duncan?" I said. "Duncan MacLeod, is that you?"
"Clytemnestra?" he said. "How long has it been?"
"At least a century," I replied. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. We've got some catching up to do."
* * *
We sat together at the bar, with a couple of beers in front of us. I initiated the conversation.
"So, what have you been up to?"
"I had a student for a while," he replied.
"That's great. What's your student's name," I asked
"His name was Richie Ryan," he replied in a way that indicated the obvious.
"I'm sorry," I replied sympathetically.
"Enough of that. What have you been doing?"
"Oh, this and that. I took up singing as a career."
"I heard you," Duncan said. "You're very good."
"Thank you," I said, blushing. I have never been good at accepting compliments.
"Hey, remember how we met?" I said
"Yes," he replied, with a spark of joviality in his eyes.
* * *
Colorado, 1868
The air in the Denver bar was thick with smoke. I sat there, delicately sipping my beer. Well, it was really more like I was chuggin' it.
I felt a Prescence.
I turned around in my seat,my right hand ready to draw my sword in case i needed to defend myself. Then I saw him.
He was tall, with dark hair cut short and the most gorgeous brown eyes I'd ever seen. He walked up to me.
"Duncan MacLeod of the CLan MacLeod," he said by way of introduction. "And you?"
*Hmmmmm.....MacLeod,* I thought. *A Scotsman.* "Clytemnestra," I replied. "I hope you're not here to challenge me, Mr. MacLeod."
"No, I'm just here for a drink. And do you want to challenge me, Clytemnestra?"
"No," I said. "Buy you a drink?"
"Very well."
"Hey, bartender," I yelled over the din of the bar. "A beer for myself and this fella."
While the bartender was getting our beers, I was getting unwelcome attention.
A *huge* guy had approached me and begun fondling my thigh.
"Get your hand off of me," I growled.
"Would you like to join me in the back?" the man said in reply. I was seriously considering killing him.
MacLeod was getting tired of this as well. "I believe the lady told you to remove your hand," he said.
"MacLeod, I can handle this." Which is exactly what I did, with a kick to the groin and and a punch to the face.
* * *
Duncan and I were laughing our asses off. "The look that guy got on his face when I kicked him," I said, barely able to control myself. The incident in the bar had sparked a a brawl and a brief fling between the Scot and myself.
"So," he said, "would you lik to go out for dinner tomorrow night?"
"I would," I replied, "but, I'm returning to the States tomorrow morning."
"Oh," he replied, looking truly sorry. "Well, when you get there, look me up OK?"
"OK," I said, and left the bar.
* * *
Thusly went my failed romance with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Was it written in the stars? I dont know. I never believed much in astrology.
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