You’re watching a woman rob you. Your purse hangs under the bar on a peg, not even a foot away. The woman digging through your belongings isn’t discreet, but nobody stops her. That doesn’t happen in this kind of place.
This lounge is underground—under O’Malley’s with its dark windows and neon glaze of bar signs. You will be preforming up there soon. Down here, blue light reflects slick on people’s skin. They lean into the couch’s armrest or bow forward on stools with curled backs.
You sidestep toward the woman, and the fiddle case sways on your back. You have a few inches on her, and that makes you feel better.
“I’ll take that now,” you say, reaching for your purse.
The woman slaps your wrist. It doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it does.
“I was here first,” she says.
“That’s my purse.” You say it loud so someone might overhear, so someone might walk over and back you up. The man at the table over there definitely saw you hang your purse. You turn to him and say, “Sir, didn’t you see me earlier? You know this is mine.”
The man ignores you. He’s scrawny with taut cheekbones, a sharp jaw. You can’t tell if it makes him look handsome or malnourished.
You can’t get a read of the woman’s face; it’s like staring into a hole. Wrinkles fold into her skin and the carry the weight of her years. You think maybe she’s homeless because there are dark stains on her shirt, and it looks like a swimming suit top sticking out of her pocket—something with nylon strings. Maybe it’s something else she’s taken.
You don’t have time for this. Brent and Rudy are waiting upstairs. They’re probably standing on that pitiful stage of milk crates and plywood, fingers darkened by rosin. The harp players are there too. You hear the low rumble of people above in O’Malley’s. It sounds like you’re underwater and everyone on the surface is having a conversation without you.
The woman grabs your purse and hides it behind her back with ease. You hate that she’s touching it, hate that she now has the upper hand, but then she turns and weaves through the tables, and there’s a millisecond where she’s leaving before it smacks you that she’s leaving with your purse. She still has it.
“Fuck!”
You haven’t cussed since college, over twenty years ago, since all your friends did and so you did. Nobody has given you a reason to cuss, and mean it, until now.
You run after the woman, but the weight of your fiddle is still on your back, and you can feel it thrashing like a freshly caught fish. You make it outside and see the woman puttering up the steps, climbing awkwardly, one leg at time.
Adrenaline is quick to your spine. Your body is ripe with it. You think this is what it feels like to be drunk. Drink gifts you the illusion of control. It makes you feel big. Though, this is just a guess. You don’t drink.
Brent appears at the top of the stairs.
“Stop her!” you call. “Please! She has my—”
Before you finish, Brent grabs the woman’s arm. It’s a light touch, and you know he doesn’t mean to hurt her. Though his free hand still curls at his side into a fist.
“What’s going on?” he asks, and his eyes drift to your purse in her hands, and you can see him piece it together.
The woman looks at you over her shoulder, but half her face is painted in shadow. “Oh, I see. You have to have your boyfriend come rescue you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say.
“She would never date me,” Brent says at the same time.
You know this woman thinks you’re a coward, and that feels bad. You don’t know why you care about this woman’s opinion because you’re never going to see her again, or at least, you hope not. But you don’t like people thinking you’re something that you aren’t.
“This purse was just under the counter. I never saw her with it,” the woman says.
“She’s lying. I know she saw me hang it.” You can’t stand liars.
“Look,” Brent says. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding, but I do know that’s Georgia’s purse because I recognize the Germ-X clip on the strap.”
“It’s not a misunderstanding. She clearly stole my fucking purse!” There it is again. You want to stop saying it, but it spills out. You don’t like who you’re becoming.
Brent’s eyes widen because he’s never heard that from you before, but he just holds up a palm. “Georgia, calm down. I’ll get it back.”
You don’t like how Brent talks down to you, but this woman clearly won’t listen to reason. Maybe she’s the type of woman who only listens to men. That’s sad for her.
The woman flips your purse over and runs her finger along the seam on the bottom. Perfume and keys and your wallet fall out and topple down the steps. The bottle of perfume rolls down to your feet, and the plastic bottle scratches. Then the woman shoves the purse into Brent’s chest with a grunt. “It’s a knockoff anyway,” she says. “This isn’t worth my time.”
He releases his grip on her, and she disappears into the street.
You wonder how people become the way they are. Obviously, that woman’s parents were horrible to her because that’s the only way someone ends up like that—with their shameless hand inside a stranger’s purse. Stealing. That’s how most people end up in a place like this. Not you. You’re here to make money legally. You had parents who read to you and signed you up for music lessons and—
“Here,” Brent says, handing back your purse.
You clutch it with clam-like stubbornness, the pearl of it returned to your palm. The fear has still not soaked from your bones. Your stomach is hot with the kind of anger that makes you shake like you’re sick with chattering teeth.
“Are you okay?” Brent asks, bending to pick up your belongings.
“I can handle myself. I’m a grown woman.” You snap open the Germ-X and rub your hands with it. The air blooms with its medicinal smell.
Brent puts your things back in the purse, and you continue up the steps. He follows.
Brent is fourteen years younger than you. He’s in that phase of his life where hanging out at bars is charming and not sad. He’s in that phase of his life where preforming at pubs on St. Patrick’s Day is considered the ultimate gig. You don’t think you have anything in common with him beyond music.
“I was just trying to help,” Brent says, as you return to street level. “It’s not like you to be late for warm up. The harpists were asking where you were.” He looks down. “I thought something might be wrong.”
Standing by the pub, the air has a tang of hops and the salty pinch of sweat.
“I was checking us in, and she came out of nowhere,” you say. “But I was handling it. I didn’t need your help.”
Brent shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” His face is soft.
Taking a handkerchief from your pocket, you place it over the door handle to O’Malley’s and open it. There is already a drunken group by the stage swaying to a club mix that’s far too loud. It’s the kind of music that pulses like another heartbeat. Rudy stands on the crates, a smeared face-painted rainbow on his cheek. Orange and green lights circle him from above.
You step inside the pub, and the air warms. “Let’s just get this over with,” you say. Your voice trembles, but you hope the music hides it—that and your shaking. You don’t need Brent to think you’re scared when you’re not.
You were the only one who auditioned, and it made you wonder why everyone else stayed away. Maybe they knew something you didn’t.
You found the flier, a call for a fiddle player, posted at the market above a bin of tomatoes. The store’s fluorescent light cupped the fruit, settling into its divots. The flier was taped to a pole behind the bin with smeared blue ink.
Looking for: Talented Fiddle Player 4 St. Patrick’s Day Szn. Must be able to work nights and weeknds. Pays well!! Call (715) 555-8705. Ask 4 Brent.
You wondered why weekends and season were misspelled, if it was on purpose or not.
You looked over your shoulder to make sure no one saw you key the number into your phone. When the water sprayers above the bins turned on, you jumped. The woman stuffing celery into a plastic bag next to you looked up but didn’t say anything. Your face heated, and you pushed your cart away. The front wheel leaned left and caught on itself, spinning and spinning and spinning.
“Well, you can come over anytime to audition, but you should do it soon. We need someone by Friday,” Brent said on the phone. His voice was gravel that made him sound like he had just woken up.
You were in your car in the grocery store parking lot. It was unusually warm for February, and condensation beaded the windshield. You turned on your wipers to clear it. “I’m not going to a strange man’s apartment,” you said.
“Oh, uh, this isn’t a trap or anything. I’d say the same thing to a dude.”
You almost hung up then, you really did. He must have sensed this in your silence because he said, “Wait. I mean, we can meet somewhere. You’re the first person to call, and we really need another—”
“We?”
“There’s two of us,” Brent said. “You’d be the third.”
They met you at the park by your apartment. When you saw them walking toward you, instrument cases at their side, it relaxed you in the way seeing a man with a child relaxed you—it softened them.
Rudy was the second one. He was younger than Brent, but he didn’t need to say that. You would have guessed. He was lanky, limbs with a head start to the rest of his body. He had long blond hair that curled on the ends in a way that seemed unintentional, as if he’d been caught in the rain.
When Brent slid out of his jacket, you noticed his arms had muscles with gentle, raised edges like water-worn rock. At one point in his life, he might have been athletic—but these muscles looked like leftovers.
“Can you sightread?” Brent asked.
He handed you a book of sheet music with a worn, wrinkled cover. The corners were bent, and you couldn’t tell if it was from mishandling or from practice. You watched the men unlatch their cases, tighten their bows. You would never have guessed they were musicians if they hadn’t proved it you. Even when you studied music in college, you didn’t perform with people who looked this young and inexperienced.
“How old are you?” you asked.
“Twenty-three,” Rudy said, but you weren’t really asking him.
“Thirty,” Brent said, though later you would find out he was actually twenty-six. Maybe he guessed your age and rounded up, wanting to be closer to you.
“Where did you get this book?” you asked. It had a colorful pattern, quit-like, on the cover. You didn’t own anything like that. It surprised you Brent did, that he had something that nice.
Brent shrugged. “I’m not sure. It was a gift.”
You opened the book and felt the spine crack. “I can sightread. What page?”
Brent’s touch was light as he pointed to King of the Fairies. “This piece,” he said, setting it on the makeshift stand.
You nestled your fiddle between your neck and chin. The sun was warm and bright against your face, and you closed your eyes into it, took a breath.
“Whenever you’re ready. We’ll follow,” Brent said.
You started. As soon as your bow touched the strings, you felt the prickle of your confidence bloom. When you play, nothing outside of that moment exists. You felt the strings under your fingers—coiled like the ribs of a penny.
Brent and Rudy joined in with you. One of them was a bit flat.
After a moment, you felt people at the park look at you. A couple stopped walking, the man tugged on his partner’s sleeve and nodded in your direction. A little girl, bent picking dandelions by a bench said, “Mommy, listen!” Someone else bobbed their head to your beat.
You felt Brent and Rudy’s eyes on you too. They had stopped playing. It reminded you why you did this. Yes, the music was beautiful. You loved the craft of it, studying it. But you knew you were good at playing the fiddle. You were good at something people wanted to be good at. It was something people didn’t immediately assume about you as a forty-year-old woman, the way they assume you are married and have children. Even now, at this point in your life, there is something you have that surprises people—makes them want to be around you.
When you finish playing, your onlooks at the park rewarded you with a light ripple of applause, and you bowed to humor them.
Brent stared at you. His eyebrows were raised, lips parted so the white specks of his teeth poked over his bottom lip. Rudy smiled and patted your shoulder. His sudden touch reminded you where you were—at a park. Not on a stage. Not in a theatre.
“I think she’s it,” Rudy said.
Brent blinked. “Yeah, I mean, you want the spot?”
At your last high school reunion fifteen years ago, the people who were in orchestra with you asked what you were doing now. None of them played anymore. You are the only one who stuck to the art, and that shows you have the grit they wish they did.
“I’m still playing,” you said, but you didn’t want to go into details. At least that part was true.
“You’re playing with the symphony, right?” someone asked.
You liked that someone believed you’re good enough for the symphony so you nodded. They were all drunk anyway so they accepted it. It sounded better than saying you’re unemployed and still living off your parent’s money. Besides, you were first chair, so the story has credibility.
That evening, you rode the edge of a knife on your lie, and it ballooned until your former orchestra teacher found out. When she confronted you in the school cafeteria, holding Jell-o and coleslaw on a paper plate, the lie popped. She asked you if you were really in the symphony, and you could tell from the crease in her forehead that she knew it was a lie. But you said yes, it’s true, because looking down at the lump of Jell-o wiggling on her plate while you stand in your high school cafeteria that still smelled like cardboard and watery disinfectant, it was embarrassing to admit to anything else.
The way Brent and Rudy looked at you after your audition was how you’ve always wanted someone to look at you.
“Yes,” you told them. “I want the spot.”
The fiddle players are outside for break. The ground is wet, and moonlight ripples in the small puddles in the uneven pavement. A group of people lean against the brick by the back door, passing a cigarette and laughing under the streetlight’s yellow-white glow. O’Malley’s is playing that terrible club mix again.
Rudy squints over the rim of his glass. “Does this taste like Pine-sol?” He offers his drink to Brent, who takes a sip. His fingers are speckled in green dye from the beer.
Brent smacks his lips. “Maybe not Pine-sol but definitely doesn’t taste right. You got that at the bar?”
Rudy nods. “Yeah. Weird, right?”
You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your sweat freezes, and the wind feels like cool kisses that make you shiver.
“You cold?” Brent asks you.
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“Here,” he shrugs out of his jacket. “You can take this.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, really, your lips are turning blue.” He holds the jacket out.
“Thanks,” you mumble sliding it on. It is too big on you; the hem hits your thighs. You feel his warmth inside it.
“God, I can’t drink this,” Rudy says. He pitches his drink in the grass. “I’m going in for another one. Anyone want something?”
“You should slow down. How many have you had?” you ask.
“I dunno. Not that much yet. Only five or six beers.”
Brent lights a cigarette, and the flame paints his palms gold. “Bring me something, will you?” he calls, as Rudy walks to the side entrance. “Surprise me.”
You roll up the sleeve of Brent’s jacket and check your watch.
“Can’t wait to get away from me?” Brent asks, walking over the wall next to you and leaning against it.
“Just wondering how much longer we have for break,” you say.
Brent takes a drag, and the cherry bleeds into the night. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“For the last time, I’m fine. Would you quit asking me that?” Your purse is in between your feet now, and you squeeze it tight to make sure it won’t leave again.
Brent laughs. “It’s a good story, isn’t it? God, that woman had to be like, what, sixty?”
“No. It isn’t a good story.”
“Not even a little funny?”
You shake your head.
“Look,” Brent says. “I like you, Georgia. We’ve been playing music together for, what, how long now? A month or so? But you could afford to relax now and again.” His voice isn’t stiff. It’s gentle. Somehow that hurts more.
“What?”
“I get it,” he says. “This isn’t your scene. I know you think this is some kind of favor for me and Rudy. I know you don’t need the money.”
You look away.
“All I’m saying is I think you’d be happier if you learned how to get out of your head,” Brent says.
You want to close your eyes. You like to close them when you play, and you think the music sounds better like that. Especially on nights like these, you can pretend you are somewhere else.
“Let me ask you,” Brent turns toward you. “What did you want? Because I know you well enough to know it wasn’t this.”
“Why do you care?”
Brent tilts his head. “I’m curious, I guess. Maybe I’m just drunk enough to ask.”
The group of smokers laughs from down the alleyway.
You sigh. “It doesn’t matter,” you say because someone like Brent won’t understand. You lean against the wall and feel the pulse of the music in your throat.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
You stare into the distance. There’s the main strip of neon lights, the partiers wandering down the street with brown paper bags and sweaty arms in a tangled mess. You watch the aviation light in the distance and think about what it would feel like to be that high. You close your eyes.
“Georgia,” Brent says. “I asked if you’re happy.”
You feel Brent shuffle closer, feel his heady breath on your neck. When you open your eyes, you see his neck exposed and pale.
He kisses you. You let him. It’s just to shut him up. You do not like Brent. It isn’t even a good kiss, but you hope that isn’t your fault. Perhaps that kernel of empathy for him compels you. That’s all this is. You feel bad for him.
You pull away when he starts kissing harder. “Stop,” you say. “Please don’t.”
“You kissed me back?” He laughs like this is a game. His laughter sounds like he’s making fun of you.
“That was a mistake.”
“Why?” Brent is still smiling. “It’s not a big deal.”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t.”
Brent drops the cigarette and stomps it out. “This is what I was talking about. You think too much.”
Tears sting your eyes, and you turn so Brent won’t see. It will make him think he’s right if he sees you crying, and he’s not right. You obviously like how you are, and he must too if he’s willing to kiss you.
“Wait,” he says. “Are you crying? Oh, Georgia, c’mon, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
You fold your arms, and the leather jacket creases into ravines at the elbows. You could say something back to Brent because you also know who he is. You think he’s hiding. He’ll say he’s happy because that’s what everyone expects, that’s what he expects, and so it’s easier to pretend. It’s easier to agree to the version of yourself people think you are. When you look up at Brent to tell him this, you see his eyes are also wet with tears.
The side door slams, and Rudy returns from the bar. “You said surprise you, but I don’t know how much of a surprise this is,” he says, handing a stein to Brent.
“It’s what I thought would happen,” Brent says. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.
Rudy takes a sip and looks between you and Brent. “Did I miss something?”
You shake your head, peeling off Brent’s jacket and handing it back to him. “No,” you say. “Nothing important.”
Later, when you leave O’Malley’s, you will see Brent in the alleyway with another woman—short with dark makeup smeared around her eyes. She will be laughing too loud. As you pass behind him, you notice she is wearing his jacket. You think she looks at you, but you walk faster to avoid finding out if you’re right.
You have to call Brent. You stare at the phone on the kitchen island, waiting for him to call first. He must be thinking about it. He’s probably trying to find the right words to say.
Sunlight streams through the window above the stove, bathing the burners in a golden orange. The color splashes onto your bare feet. The title is cold against your naked skin.
You pick up the phone and dial.
“Hello?”
You clear your throat. “Hi, Brent.”
“Jesus, what time is it?”
You glance at the clock over the stove. The flashing green says it’s almost eight. There’s rustling, and Brent groans. He sounds far away.
“My head’s fuckin’ pounding. Hang on,” he says.
His voice mumbles on the other end. You catch the words, “Be right back.” Hear his labored footsteps, the whine of a door.
“So, what’s going on?” His voice is bleary with sleep.
You take a deep breath. “We should talk about last night.”
He’s working his way through the house. Hear the creak of cabinet, a clang of a glass, a sink turning on. “Last night? What do you mean?”
“About what happened.”
The sink turns off, and Brent gulps his drink. “You’re going to have to fill me in,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The alleyway…”
Brent laughs. “The alleyway?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I guess I don’t.” He pauses. “What, did Rudy say something dumb?”
“No, I mean, not then, but—”
“One second.”
His voice, “Go back to bed.” A woman’s voice, “Who is that?” His voice, “It’s just a friend.”
His voice louder, “Georgia? You still there?”
Your stomach drops. “Actually, I should let you go,” you say. “This isn’t a big deal.”
Brent starts to say something more, but you hang up before he can.
On the shelf in the study there is a music book. The corners are faded white and veiny. You never played from it though, as if not touching the book would absolve you from the theft. You go to it now. The bent spine sticks out from the rest of the books. You take it from the shelf and open it. It smells like glue. The pages are soft and thinned with age.
You haven’t played from it since the park on the day of the audition. When everyone packed up, Brent didn’t ask for it back. You slid it into your bag. Brent hasn’t asked where it’s gone, and so you kept it—maybe he didn’t even notice. It would be too strange to hand it back now after all this time. That’s why you have to keep it. Besides, it’s a nice book. Someone like Brent won’t know how to treat it like you do.
On the inside cover is Brent’s name in pencil. A month ago, it was dark lead, but today it is smudged and faded. You are happy the mark is almost gone. It will be better that way, you think—it won’t be a reminder of what you’ve done.
