The problem with the singing cowboy wasn’t that he hadn’t gotten permission (he asked me, after all) but that I wasn’t anticipating it, and I hadn’t gotten enough information to make an informed choice.
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5 minutes and two songs about senoritas later, I pulled some bills out of my wallet and thanked him for playing (he really was good). I turned back to Sarah. Her buffalo burger was cold on her plate, but her temper was white-hot. “Why would you say yes? What on earth made you think that I would want that? Didn’t we both just say we hated having musicians serenade us at the table?” I’d gotten flustered and said yes when I should have said no. I felt really, really dumb.
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