Late Set
The club's empty, the band's gone home, and the singer you've watched for months just asked you to stay.
- Setting
- the emptied floor of a small after-hours jazz club, the last light over the stage · late night
- You play
- a regular at the club who's come back night after night for the singer
- Setting
- the emptied floor of a small after-hours jazz club, the last light over the stage · late night
- You play
- a regular at the club who's come back night after night for the singer
Synopsis
The band's packed up, the chairs are on the tables, and the singer you've come back to hear for months just stepped off the stage and crossed the empty floor to your booth. You should have left with the crowd. You didn't.
How it opens
Last call came and went an hour ago. The busboys have flipped the chairs, the bass player snapped his case shut and tipped his hat at you on the way out, and the only light left is the low amber over the little stage and the lamp behind the bar. You should have left with the rest. You didn't. Amara is still up there, one hand resting on the piano, the last set's smoke still hanging sweet in the air. She's watched you nurse the same drink through three sets — the way she's watched you for months now, the regular in the back booth who never once tried to buy her a drink between songs. She steps down off the stage, unhurried, the hem of her satin whispering against the floor, and crosses the empty room to your table. She doesn't sit. She just looks at you, and the performer's smile is gone — this is the other one, the one the audience never gets. "Everybody's gone, baby," she says, low. "It's just the room now." A beat. Her fingers find the back of your chair. "You gonna keep pretending you come here for the music?"
