I sit down on the little wooden stool that has been placed on the stage for me and shift around, getting comfortable. Then I pluck the strings of my guitar one by one, tuning them, and turn to the small audience that has gathered around the raised platform, sipping their four dollar espressos and looking up at me expectantly. I smile and introduce myself and the first song I’m going to sing and then play. It’s one of my own, about my experience coming out to my parents and then my first girlfriend.

When I finish, there’s a light splattering of applause from the cafe patrons, at least the ones who aren’t so attached to their coffee they wouldn’t dream of taking either hand off of the cup. I smirk, almost imperceptibly, thinking about the subject of my next song, then announce to the audience what said next song is called. I begin to sing the minor, sad tune, strumming along and blinking my eyes rapidly to try and stop the tears from having their way with me. On stage is not the time to break down. This song, the source of the wet streak slowly trickling down my face, is about the horrible split from that very girlfriend, the one and only girlfriend that I’ve had, and how now, four months later, I’m still reeling in its mashed up, crashed up wake. This may have been a better song to leave for the end, as I’m now so choked up I can barely stutter out the title of my next song, let alone sing it. But I do.

I look down at the people sitting, daintily sipping their coffee and ever so obviously sympathizing with me, with my song, and try to notice people. Not too hard as there’s approximately twelve in this building. The first person to catch my eye is a tall lanky boy with a blue shock of hair swept across his head, boredly scrubbing at a coffee machine, and not sympathizing with my words, the only of the sort in my field of vision. The next person I notice is a petite girl sitting at table closest to me and doodling into a messy sketchbook, coffee sitting next to her on the table. Her mouth is wide open and her tongue is lolling out sideways. When she looks up at me and catches my eye, she slowly blushes a dark shade of scarlet, from the neck up, blinking her wide open eyes up at me. I look at her until she lowers her gaze down to the paper and then turn my eyes away from the top of her head and look out the window at the dreary drizzle falling from the sky and the sea of black umbrellas before bursting into the chorus of my last song of the set.

When I’m done there’s slightly louder applause for some of the people have finished their coffee and realize there is no point in holding their cups in a death grip now. I stand, pack my guitar into its case and load the speakers and mic back into the small storage room the venue has for them. I give the coffee house goers one last once-over, wondering if I’ll ever see any of them ever again, before heading out the door while pulling out my own depressing umbrella to join the sea. In the back of the taxi to my apartment, I pull out my phone checking my calendar for the time of my next gig. Four hours from now. Probably enough time to take a nap. Maybe.

Four hours later I’m standing in front of a semi-shady looking club on the outskirts of downtown, the roof ramshackle and the sign hanging haphazardly from the gutter. My guitar slung across my back, I tentatively step into the room to be almost knocked backward from the combined noise and stench. It’s a very putrid and overpowering mix of alcohol, sweat and blaring electronica. I wonder somewhere in the back of my mind if I’ll have to play over this atrocious noise before finding my way to the stage in the back, this one a bit bigger than the last, and beginning my setup.

I sing my first song, then my next, the tears much more bearable this time, and then on my last song I look around again, noticing. This room has many more people in it, most of them with at least one drink in their hands and arguably many more in their stomachs, and most of them are exactly the same looking, tired, bored, and borderline drunk. The only things I notice are a ragged shirt advertising a band I love, a pastel flower crown on a coat rack, neon fuchsia and yellow shoes, a monstrosity in their own right even without the accompanying outfit, and an open mouth with a tongue hanging out the side. The last one intrigues me and I glance back over at the face they belong to, discovering that it is, in fact, the girl that was sketching at my last little gig. I look at her eyes, but they’re focused somewhere other than my face. Curiously, I follow her line of sight, straight to my guitar. I look back up at her and observe as she glances from my guitar to her sketchbook again and again, hand with the pencil never stopping in its scribble. It then dawns on me what she’s doing. Now, though, my song is done and I stand up and begin to pack up my guitar letting the staff handle the speakers and mic this time, they seem well capable and I’m tired and missing my comfortable bed. I take a taxi back to my apartment, put my guitar away and fall asleep, shoes still on, smelling of cheap beer and with loud music ringing in my ears.

The next week goes on as planned, only one show, this one on a Friday in a more mainstream club. At least one closer to the centre of downtown. The crowds of people are as packed as sardines when I get to the venue and it’s just as crowded, if not more, in the building. As I set up, I scan the crowd for an open mouth and floppy tongue and find neither. I’m not disappointed, just curious as to why she showed up at my last two shows and not this one. But I don’t dwell on it long, figuring that at least one other person from the coffee house had shown up at the other gig. It wasn’t improbable. I sing my love song, my breakup song, a comedic song about family, and a song about missing home before standing and packing up my guitar. The black-clad staff file over to the stage and begin packing up the equipment and plugging a computer into the speakers that begin to blare much too loud electronic music, reminding me rather unpleasantly of the other club. I stand at the back corner of the action, wanting to help, but not wanting to ask what I should do, so I settle for watching the people attempt to dance without falling over or spilling their drinks.

They are quite the spectacle, mostly just shaking their hips and nodding their heads, embarrassingly off beat. I come to my senses when a short, pudgy man with long hair and a gelled mustache pokes me on the shoulder. He tells me that I have to leave the stage now. I nod, not feeling like talking and make my way across the dance floor. This proves to be much harder than one would expect, especially with a guitar adding to my square footage. I slide over to the edge of the dance floor, trying to get to a place where the foot traffic may be a little lighter so I can make my way to the front.

As I walk through the double doors I’m jostled from side to side, patrons trying to get themselves in the building and not caring what, or who, they slam into the doorframe in the process, before breaking free and going to turn a quick corner, eager to catch a taxi home and relax. I spin around the corner of the building, my arm scraping the bricks, only to run into yet another person. I grunt in annoyance and turn to tell the person to watch where they’re going. Expecting them to respond with a snide remark like the many people bustling downtown do, I sneer down at their hooded head in preparation. They glance up at me and at first, all I can see is their eyes. They are rather boring eyes, female eyes, but still rather boring ones. Then she fully tilts her head up and the first thing I see is a small mouth wide open with a tongue sticking out of the corner, now in surprise more than concentration. She looks up at me, and upon realizing who I am, hugs her sketchbook closer and mumbles something, her face flushing and her rather boring brown eyes opening so wide as to cover half of her face. I just blink at her, contemplating the odds of running into her, this girl that has been drawing me while I sing, while I try to escape the hustle and bustle of downtown. She looks at me as if she had just asked me a question, head tilted quizzically to the side, and I realize she has. I don’t know the question, therefore I don’t know the answer, so I stand blinking down at her stupidly and adjust my guitar strap. Her face changes from gentle expectancy to realization as she notices my unresponsiveness and asks her question again. I smile and respond,

“Hi Emilia, I’m Lena. Nice to finally meet you.”