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121012 -- Waterworks
Dec. 10th, 2012 02:56 pmWaterworks
a really really really creative nonfiction
She's standing behind the microphone when he enters the room, blue guitar in hand, boom stand placed firm and center. A bit boho chic, but feathers in her hair, and the happiest blue eyes he's seen in a long time. She's comfortable, confident; he hasn't seen a lot of people like her before. A sound engineer sits behind her at the board, and a bunch of hip-hop artists and aficionados sit in the audience, every eye on the white girl on stage in this small cafe.
Her words meld with her guitar as she plays, the open mic night continuing as he finds a seat in the back.
Irony strikes in the form of lightning
God's tears fall across my face
Keep the bittersweet memories spinning
I can't forget this place
The song ends. Five seconds later, he realizes he forgot how to breathe.
Her outgoing personality keeps him in the corner as she catches up with everybody in the building, chats with the barista, gives the owner a quick hug. She constantly steps back to the sound board engineer, and he catches something in her eye. So that's it, he knows, but he doesn't at all.
It's only a matter of time before she finds him. "Haven't seen you here before," she says, extending her hand.
He shrugs it away, explains that he just got to New York City for his first year of college. "Tell me more," she says, so he does, though he doesn't know why. He tells her of his upbringing in upstate New York, how he just got to the city for college, how he's at a coffeeshop on a Thursday night and not a bar because of his age, how he's just a normal kid in the big city.
"Don't be ashamed of your age," she tells him with a smile. "I'm only nineteen myself. And I'd be in school if I wasn't pursuing music so hard." She crosses her legs, accepts a water from the barista she knows so well, makes herself at home. "I'm originally from the Midwest, actually. Born in Indiana, raised in Ohio. I've always loved music, though. When I was eleven, I raised money for Hurricane Katrina victims by releasing a single in my hometown. Since then, I knew I wanted to perform, but everybody at home kept trying to put me into a mold. It took forever to convince my parents for me to come here by myself."
She laughs, her blue eyes still bright. "Yeah, I'm here by myself! Took me a while to figure out how I was going to do this, but I got in touch with some people and I'm crashing on their couch in Washington Heights for a while. It's way different than Ohio was, that's for sure. I've been doing that for a year now. My poor parents didn't know what to do with me. They're more used to my older sister; she's more grounded, more athletic, everything I'm not." She chuckles. "Prettier, too, I think. She's my hero."
The engineer stops by her, says he's leaving; she smiles at him as he goes. "He has no clue," she says, her speech straight as a pin. "Whatever. The love of his life is upstate. Maybe you've met her in passing and you don't even know it." She laughs, but this time, he senses the bitterness. "You know how they say that you are your own worst critic?"
He nods, explains he's trying to be a writer, a photographer, but it's harder than it looks. There's a difference between taking pictures with a smartphone and freelancing Photoshop work. "I understand," she tells him, pointing at the feathers in her long braided hair, her blue tunic and long tan skirt. "You see this outfit? I designed it myself. I'd love to be a fashion designer, maybe after I hit it big as a singer. Though I might try to play something other than guitar. I've always wanted to play piano. Do you know anybody who plays piano -- wait, you wouldn't. You just moved here." She laughs. "Sorry."
The barista delivers a water and two cookies to them both. "He's cool," she explains. "He's been here forever. You know how the word 'hipster' is like really big right now? This seems like that type of place. Don't you think so?"
He nods, says he's quite the hipster himself, with the carefree dark hair, the beanie cap, the glasses, the light flannel and skinny jeans and Converse. The expensive camera around his neck may try to throw off the image somewhat, but it still works.
"I'm kind of a hipster," she says, looking into his brown eyes. "But I think I'm just me. What's your name again? I don't know if I ever got it."
Again, he forgets to breathe, not sure why, but he spits it out in between bites of cookie.
She giggles. "I'm Emily. Nice to meet you."
a really really really creative nonfiction
She's standing behind the microphone when he enters the room, blue guitar in hand, boom stand placed firm and center. A bit boho chic, but feathers in her hair, and the happiest blue eyes he's seen in a long time. She's comfortable, confident; he hasn't seen a lot of people like her before. A sound engineer sits behind her at the board, and a bunch of hip-hop artists and aficionados sit in the audience, every eye on the white girl on stage in this small cafe.
Her words meld with her guitar as she plays, the open mic night continuing as he finds a seat in the back.
Irony strikes in the form of lightning
God's tears fall across my face
Keep the bittersweet memories spinning
I can't forget this place
The song ends. Five seconds later, he realizes he forgot how to breathe.
Her outgoing personality keeps him in the corner as she catches up with everybody in the building, chats with the barista, gives the owner a quick hug. She constantly steps back to the sound board engineer, and he catches something in her eye. So that's it, he knows, but he doesn't at all.
It's only a matter of time before she finds him. "Haven't seen you here before," she says, extending her hand.
He shrugs it away, explains that he just got to New York City for his first year of college. "Tell me more," she says, so he does, though he doesn't know why. He tells her of his upbringing in upstate New York, how he just got to the city for college, how he's at a coffeeshop on a Thursday night and not a bar because of his age, how he's just a normal kid in the big city.
"Don't be ashamed of your age," she tells him with a smile. "I'm only nineteen myself. And I'd be in school if I wasn't pursuing music so hard." She crosses her legs, accepts a water from the barista she knows so well, makes herself at home. "I'm originally from the Midwest, actually. Born in Indiana, raised in Ohio. I've always loved music, though. When I was eleven, I raised money for Hurricane Katrina victims by releasing a single in my hometown. Since then, I knew I wanted to perform, but everybody at home kept trying to put me into a mold. It took forever to convince my parents for me to come here by myself."
She laughs, her blue eyes still bright. "Yeah, I'm here by myself! Took me a while to figure out how I was going to do this, but I got in touch with some people and I'm crashing on their couch in Washington Heights for a while. It's way different than Ohio was, that's for sure. I've been doing that for a year now. My poor parents didn't know what to do with me. They're more used to my older sister; she's more grounded, more athletic, everything I'm not." She chuckles. "Prettier, too, I think. She's my hero."
The engineer stops by her, says he's leaving; she smiles at him as he goes. "He has no clue," she says, her speech straight as a pin. "Whatever. The love of his life is upstate. Maybe you've met her in passing and you don't even know it." She laughs, but this time, he senses the bitterness. "You know how they say that you are your own worst critic?"
He nods, explains he's trying to be a writer, a photographer, but it's harder than it looks. There's a difference between taking pictures with a smartphone and freelancing Photoshop work. "I understand," she tells him, pointing at the feathers in her long braided hair, her blue tunic and long tan skirt. "You see this outfit? I designed it myself. I'd love to be a fashion designer, maybe after I hit it big as a singer. Though I might try to play something other than guitar. I've always wanted to play piano. Do you know anybody who plays piano -- wait, you wouldn't. You just moved here." She laughs. "Sorry."
The barista delivers a water and two cookies to them both. "He's cool," she explains. "He's been here forever. You know how the word 'hipster' is like really big right now? This seems like that type of place. Don't you think so?"
He nods, says he's quite the hipster himself, with the carefree dark hair, the beanie cap, the glasses, the light flannel and skinny jeans and Converse. The expensive camera around his neck may try to throw off the image somewhat, but it still works.
"I'm kind of a hipster," she says, looking into his brown eyes. "But I think I'm just me. What's your name again? I don't know if I ever got it."
Again, he forgets to breathe, not sure why, but he spits it out in between bites of cookie.
She giggles. "I'm Emily. Nice to meet you."
