Applause erupts like fireworks before Ione even steps off the stage in the corner of the bar, as it always does. It’s to be expected, out of politeness if nothing else, but expecting the effects of a shot of tequila doesn’t negate the potency. She feels like she’s crowd surfing as the audio waves lift her up. She could be lying in a field of roses, except rather than roses, compliments are blossoming. Her skin is comfortable and she feels her legs, wobbling not too long ago as she first approached the wooden podium, are now floating an inch above the sticky, wooden floor. While reading, she entered a meditative state, not an internal one unto the emptiness of her self but a projected one which hypnotized the audience before her. She feels a hand on her shoulder and someone pouring praise into her ear but she is so high off adrenaline the words may have been another language. As the person pulls away, she sees it is the stepmother of her child, Maggie. Ione babbles words of gratitude which may have been as clear as a new invented language to Maggie as well.
She heads straight for the bar, not sticking around to hear the emcee give prelude to her successor. She feels guilty and isn’t disinterested in the following act but sometimes when you need a drink, you need a drink. The further she retreats from the radius of the applause, the further removed she finds herself from the stage, the more grounded she becomes, as though the area is radioactive.
She begins resting her elbow on the bar, leaning forward to pressure the bartender over with her body language when she hears, “Can I buy you a drink?” She looks to her left to see a woman her age with thin dyed black hair pulled back into a ponytail. The stranger is wearing a tank top and cargo jeans. Her arms are sleeved with ink. Ione recognizes her from the crowd, she thought she caught her smiling at one point. “That was transformative.”
“Thank you,” Ione says, reaching a hand awkwardly out for a shake. The gesture is accepted with only slight hesitation. Ione doesn’t know why she did that; she isn’t a hand shaker. “I’m sorry, I’m still jittery from being onstage.”
“So, you could use that drink. What’ll it be?”
Ione gives her order to this stranger under the condition that the next round would be on her. She asked for her new friend’s name and offered hers back in return.
“I know,” the girl laughs. “It was kinda announced before you read.”
Ione laughs nervously, feeling her cheeks light up.
“I’m just busting your balls. I know you’re a little shook up. I dunno how you could get up there and do that. I can hardly make it through a job interview without crying.”
“I don’t know how I do it, either,” Ione agrees. “Not that I do it well.” She tips her head towards the current performer who was in the midst of a vocal performance of peaks and valleys, raising his voice to a scream and leaning close into the mic for a hushed whisper before reaching any crescendo. “I could never do something like that. I’m just reading from a piece of paper.” This much was true, through her performances, Ione learned to cling to her pages like a life raft keeping her afloat in the ocean.
“I hope that’s false modesty.” The bartender passes them their drinks in exchange for some crumpled up dollar bills. “Keep the change.”
They clink their bottles together.
“So, is it prying if I ask about what you read?”
Ione shakes her head, wiping some dribble from her chin with the sleeve of her shirt.
“How much of it is true?” She immediately follows it up with, “Asking because I’ve lived through similar things and it just felt very true to life. I know you said it was fictional.”
Ione shrugs. “True as a memory can be.” She points to the tattoos on her partner’s forearm. “They’re not like those, where they fade but you can still see them, ya know. Memories lose shape. They take on a life of their own and sometimes you don’t know if remembering is telling a story or listening to one.”
“I like yours, by the way.”
Ione lets out a breath of relief that is akin to laughter. “Thanks. I like yours, too. I was looking for some segue to point them out.”
The woman spins around to show off the tattoos along her shoulders and the exposed parts of her back. “Coulda just mentioned it.” Ione entertains this by giving her own applause. “Who did yours?” “
“An ex.”
“They all have a similar style, so, I guessed it was one person. They were talented. Was it the guy from your story?”
Ione nods.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” She glances down nervously at her own body art. “It’s like he’s all over me, all the time.”
“You ever think about getting them covered up?”
“If only money grew on trees. Maybe it’s for the best. Bad enough I practically killed the guy, having someone else erase and replace his work would be like desecrating a corpse.”
“Hey, sometimes people kill in self-defense. He was smothering you; you stabbed him in the heart. That sounds like fair play to me.”
“But, yeah, walking around with all these feels like wearing your own regrets physically. It’s a collection of scars.”
“Scars can be hot. Gotta think, you wouldn’t be where you are now without the path that led you here. If it wasn’t for all that ♥♥♥♥♥♥-up ♥♥♥♥ would you be such a badass femme fatale writer today?”
Ione shrugs.
“Not enough?”
“No, it’s not. I’ll take the writing and the shows but if I could trade the devil all that for a better life, I’d take the deal.”
“Well, what does make all the stress and trauma worth it to you?”
“This,” Ione says, without hesitation. “Moments of freedom. Being able to take a deep breath in and out. My daughter. This conversation right now. Life makes life worth it.”
“Hell yeah.” The girl puts her palm up for a high five. Ione slaps her some skin. “More life.”
Their conversation continues for hours, occasionally taking an intermission for a restroom break or featuring a cameo from other readers and audience members swinging by to wish them a good night and to thank Ione for her contribution. Before long, the lights come on and last call is announced.
“♥♥♥♥,” Ione slurs, properly sloshed. “That was a quick night.”
“Yeah,” is all her friend could say.
There was a pause, the moment in which both people know they’re at a fork in the road and will soon be parting.
“Hey, do you wanna take this back to my place?”
“Anything to drink there? Or should we take a six pack on our way out?”
Deciding to settle on whatever might be left in the fridge, they head out together.
The door swings shut behind them.