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Illuminated dimmed with dusk, casting the divebar into an otherworldly silhouette. Auburn glow hung from overhead string lights, lulling the room into some peculiar sacrosanctity. The lazy conversations of regulars flooded everyone’s senses, the reeking of beer and sweat evident from all corners. The sooty-tiled flooring was caked with grease, chewed gum protruding from the underside of barstools. This space had a pulse, one terrifyingly alive with every loud-mouthed joke and slammed-down glassware. Everyone could taste the blood in its veins, metallic and saccharine. The narrow mahogany stage loomed over the dozens of packed tables, one singular microphone to a lone, sable wire. It was the lungs, breathing with every guitar strum.
Michelle was fairly-drunk. The buzz of alcohol tingled in her fingertips and upper-stomach, causing the wild movement around to reduce to an unsteady blur. She twiddles the glass in front of her clumsily, pressing the icecubes to her palm and noting how they dissolve. Lucia and Dustine were slapping eachother nonsensically, bent over giggling in the ripped boothseat. They were beyond it, absolutely wasted. Michelle considered slamming her head down and knocking out, her entire body craved slumber. Some release from the constant stream of noisy patrons and obnoxious musicians. Why had she agreed to come here again? Lucia swore it was a beautiful spot, absolutely niche yet perfectly stocked with all the right things. Michelle wasn’t convinced.
Her eyes are drawn to the lumber platform, jaw slumped against her wrist resting on the table. The thump of her slowing heartbeat flooded her ears. It was unflatteringly lonely, with nobody performing upon it. It felt foreign to watch a stage be lifeless. Completely devoid of what composed it. Quite awfully boring, too, if Michelle was being wholeheartedly honest. She bit her lip roughly, some movement off to the left catching her gaze. She only caught a sliver of the girl’s face in the limelight, however her breath was caught.
A girl with round, mousy curls stepped up delicately. Her bouncing hair was chopped messily, as if she had taken rusty kitchen scissors to it recently. Doe eyes framed her expression, a hesitant tooth-gapped grin flickering into view. She swayed from side to side barely, an abstractedly patterned skirt draped down onto the floor. Her lace top looked to be hand-stitched, or bought secondhand. She propped a decorated acoustic guitar, adorned by artistic cravings along with painted spirals, on her hip. She had the weary countenance of a prey animal, shivering in the winter. God, Michelle thought. She was beautiful beyond comprehension. A goddess delivered to New York.
She tapped the microphone shyly, testing to see if the audio came back right. When she was seemingly satisfied, she strung the lemon-coloured guitar strap over her shoulder and cleared her throat. “Hi,” She murmured, quiet yet enough to be heard. Heads began to turn, straining to peer over at the lovely girl with the acoustic guitar. “I’m Willow.” She continued, smiling endearingly. Conversations hushed, trained on her next word. “I’m gonna sing Joan Baez.” She shrugged, apologetic with her body. As if she was disturbing anyone, disrupting their night. She could ruin a thousand of Michelle’s nights, and she wouldn’t mind in the slightest. Nobody else seemed to mind either. “She’s really good, definitely a favorite.” The girl nods, swallowing.
A man cheers from a table to the farright, urging her on. She cracks a wider grin. “So, Farewell Angelina.” She decides, beginning to pluck the guitar strings. A few tables in the back go into an uproar, encouraging with confidence. “This song's technically Dylan’s, but she sang it better. We all know it.” The girl rolls her head back, adjusting to comfort. A few people surrounding Michelle laugh. Michelle’s face heats up as she commences the song.
“Farewell, Angelina, The bells of the crown,” Her voice lifted to the room to divinity, placing Michelle on Cloud-9. The entire room felt silent, hooked on her lullaby. Michelle knew, reasonably, nobody could be better than Baez. She wasn’t an idiot. However, this girl played her hand, and she played it well. She was a gasp of fresh air, a cracked window in a sweaty restaurant. A fargone lightingbug Michelle would chase, never tiring of the thrill. “But farewell, Angelina, The sky is on fire, And I must go,” The methodic melody lulled everyone, the pleasingly rhythmic strumming left awe on dozens of faces. Perhaps Michelle was simply lovestruck, or she had found an angel. The lights casted shadows behind her, framing the illusion of widely unfolded wings.
Willow’s eyes scan the crowd, noticing any appreciation they might hold in their drunken pupils. There was something she craved, Michelle observed. She hungered to be wanted. And damn, did Michelle want her. “The sky is trembling, And I must leave,” Her voice carried like bird-song. Eventually, her eyes came to rest on Michelle. Unblinking and startled, intensity rimmed her stare. Michelle matched her timid emphasis, puppy-dog misty eyed. The corner of Michelle’s lips quirked unwillingly, a soft smile. A declaration of solace. A subtle statement of you’re amazing, I’ve never met you, I would like to meet you. Please, let me meet you.
The invitation is returned, a similar apprehensive grin overtaking Willow’s face. Her dimples showed in the weak luminescence, her nose scrunched upward. Michelle thought she was going to be sick. Where had this beauty been for all her life? She didn’t caution to mask the admiration in her flushed cheeks. All others were too trained on Willow to notice. “And the neighbors, they clap, And they cheer with each blast,” The song draws on, growing lovelier with each note. Michelle had never had a distinct appreciation for Joan Baez, or folk music for that matter. After tonight, her radio will be turned on its axis. However, she doubts anyone on the incoherent channels could ever sound like this. She would never find this again.
The song concludes with time, Michelle’s heart in her throat. “Thank you,” Willow blows a kiss to the audience, smooth and gentle. The crowd claps with a ferocity, Lucia and Dustine whooping. Michelle remains in her silence, too overcome by it all. The girl steps off the wooden podium, guitar draped upon her back. She sneaks a silent glance at Michelle, reciprocated with a violent crimson blush. Willow giggles, slipping out the back entrance of the bar.
—-
The night was no longer young. Michelle’s friends had taken off, rowdy yet enjoying themselves. Michelle stands alone in the back alleyway, struggling to set a cigarette alight. She knew her mother would smite her ass, if she knew. Alone at night, smoking, drunk. She’d be dead. However her mother was not here, and Michelle needed the relief after such a beautiful sight. She presses the heel of her leather boot up against the brick, exhaling deeply. Car horns run a rampage surrounding her, thousands of faces rush down the sidewalk. The city lights came blindingly. She thought this place couldn't possibly live up to its name, The City That Never Sleeps. She was proven wrong alarmingly quickly.
The soft clacking of flats approach. Michelle doesn’t particularly notice, preoccupied. “Hi.” A soothing voice sounded. The voice. She spins around, nearly face-to-face with Willow. She inhales awfully hastily, laboring to suppress the urge to devolve into a coughing fit. Maybe it was Michelle’s time, and this angel was sent to come get her.
“Hi!” Michelle stammers, fumbling for a grip against the wall.
Willow chuckled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “You shouldn’t smoke.” She remarks, eluding to the cigarette Michelle still held between her fingers. “It’s bad for you.”
Michelle’s eyebrows shot up, searching for the nearest trash-can. “Yeah, you’re – you’re right.” She nods, flicking the stamped out bud behind her. “I just, uh, you’re right.” She swallowed nervously, biting her tongue. Willow only giggled harder.
“You’re weird.” Willow states, cocking her head to the side. Her fingers fumbled with the keychain at her pocket, as if she was equally taut. However, that could never prove to be true, because nobody could outbeat Michelle in awkwardness around a gorgeous girl. “I like that.” She mumbles, gaze drifting down to her shoes. Michelle moved to say something, nevertheless no words came to her. Willow abruptly looked up through her eyelashes, doe eyes glimmering in the artificial starlight, knocking Michelle’s pinky against hers.
“You like that I’m – weird?” Michelle faltered, sweat beading on her neck. Holy shit, she likes me. Could this be heaven?
“Yeah, I do. I really do.”