She’s standing up there. Stiff. One leg throbbing. Holding the microphone like a
baby bird. Back lit. Blue neon. Large afro loose curls in silhouette. Cigarette
smoke thick, softens your heart. Her hips start to sway softly. Electric guitar
cuts right through this smoke and melts your limbs. You begin to rock there on
your bar stool.
The blue. Her hair. The guitar. They all melt away and you’re dancing now in
Sandy’s back yard. Someone put the radio in the window and turned the volume
up. Mick Jagger’s sweltering voice. Wild wild horses. You’re spinning in the
leaves. Barefoot. Sandy bumps into you. And just like that you’re slow dancing.
Just like at the Junior High dances. Your brother does the light shows. He lets
you sneak in to watch. Live bands. You thought they were famous. But they
were just a bunch of high school kids.
You like the slow dancing best. It looks real. It looks like love. It looks like
She stops singing. The guitar goes quiet. Nobody claps. It’s just some bar on
2nd street. You can hear the chattering now the music stopped. You look
around the bar for her. She must be on break. You wish you were the kind of
person who could walk right up to her and say, ‘hey, nice song’. But you know
Maybe if she stands at the bar next to you. Maybe if she lingers, waiting for her
free beer. Maybe then you’d get up the nerve to say something. But she’s gone.
Probably off home to her boyfriend. Or uptown to another gig. Doesn’t matter.
You’ll never see her again.