Don't Do It
POV: Iris
The first man to ever request one of my original songs disappeared before I could ask anything else. That might be why I’m feeling everything a little too much right now.
The lights always feel too bright after a set.
It doesn’t matter how dim the venue actually is; once I step off stage, everything sharpens. All the sounds I drown out with music come back to me. People get closer. My own thoughts get louder.
The old pendant lights cast everything in cute little lighting, softening the worn wood bar and mismatched tables into something beautiful. Bourbon’s has that lived-in kind of comfort. The bar was new to me, but I loved it.
Mid-May in Chicago means the bar door keeps opening in little bursts of cool air, carrying in street noise and the smell of rain on pavement. The room is in that in-between state where the music is gone, but nobody’s ready to leave yet.
I crouch down behind the divider near the stage, my fingers working quickly to unplug my guitar cable.
Okay. Breathe. That went well.
But the request keeps replaying in my head.
I try to tell myself that it's whatever; people request music all the time. I can't make myself believe it, though.
He asked for my song. An original. One most people here wouldn’t know.
What kind of man in a neighborhood bar knows the catalogue of some small indie artist and requests a deep cut like it means something?
I’m still surprised when strangers know my music exists.
I slide my guitar into its case and try not to picture him again. I fail. I can't help but think of him, his dark hair he pushed back with his fingers right before walking toward the stage. He was quiet in a way that felt almost calculated, and then he gave me his name: Dom.
I press my lips together and shake my head. At twenty-five, I should probably be above spiraling over mysterious bar men. Apparently not.
By the time I make it to the bar counter, I notice the room is a little more empty than it was when I was performing a few minutes ago. That makes me feel good, like there were a few people who stayed just for my music.
I scan the room without trying to look like I’m scanning.
He’s not where he was, sitting in the corner booth. He’s not anywhere I can see. Disappointment hits me before I can stop it.
Okay. Why do you care?
I slide onto a barstool anyway.
“Water, please,” I say, setting my elbow on the counter.
“Oh honey, water?” Luca, the bartender, says, dramatic in a way that makes me smile. “After that set? No. Absolutely not.”
I’d met Luca a few days before my set when I came to the bar to make sure my equipment worked with what they had. He was nice and always opinionated. I liked that about him.
I laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I promise I’m good with water.”
He pulls his eyebrows together and squints at me, trying to read my soul.
“You sure? Because I can make you something, girl. The set was tea.”
“Aw, thank you, but I am definitely good with water,” I say, grinning now.
“Fine,” he sighs, turning to grab a glass, "but I’m disappointed.”
He slides the water toward me. I take a sip, then hesitate.
Be normal about this.
“Hey,” I say casually, tapping the rim of the glass. “The guy who requested that last song… do you know him? Does he come in here a lot?”
He freezes mid-wipe of the counter. Slowly, he turns back to face me.
“Oh,” he says, dragging the word out like he’s been waiting for this exact question his whole life. “Him.”
I blink, immediately trying to backtrack. “I mean, not like… just curious. I didn’t—”
“Oh no, no, no,” he cuts in, waving a hand dramatically. “We all are curious, babe.”
I pause.
"We?”
“Yes, we,” he says, setting both elbows on the bar now, fully invested. “Because let me tell you something about that man.”
I lean in, now. He has my full attention.
“He comes in,” Luca continues, ticking points off on his fingers, “orders a whiskey—neat, by the way, like a grown man with secrets—”
I almost laugh.
“…sits somewhere quiet,” he goes on, “listens to whoever’s performing, and then? He leaves.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it,” he confirms. “Miriam’s spiritual ass thinks he’s a vampire,” he chuckles, pointing toward a woman cleaning up behind the bar.
I laugh for a minute at the thought, then glance down at my glass. It makes me even more curious. I look back up.
“Come on, you mean to tell me you, out of all people, don’t know anything about him?” I tease.
“Nothing,” he repeats, delighted by the mystery. “He doesn’t talk about himself. Doesn’t even flirt.”
He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice. “And once in a while,” he adds, “some girl will go up to him...”
I already don’t like where this is going.
“…and try,” he adds, eyebrows lifting. “Oh, bitch, they try.”
“And?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“And he shuts it down,” Luca says, snapping his fingers. “Nice, but real firm. It’s giving ‘I wish you well, but I don’t want to be bothered.’”
That throws me off for a second.
“Honey,” he continues, straightening up, “I think he’s gay or something. I don’t know because no matter how pretty the girl is, all he wants is his whiskey, his little music moment, and then he’s gone.”
I look down at my water again. That should feel weird. It should feel off: a man who no one knows, who doesn’t talk, who comes and goes almost eerily so. That’s the kind of person people warn you about.
I replay the moment in my head, his voice steady and calm anyway. It was nothing overly complicated, but in Iris fashion, here I am overthinking it.
“You good?” Luca asks.
I glance up, realizing I’d been zoned out.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, smiling it off. “Just thinking.”
He eyes me for a second, then a slow smile, catching on.
“Careful,” he says. “That’s how it starts.”
“How what starts?”
“Curiosity,” he replies, sing-song. “And curiosity? Oh, she’s messy.”
I exhale slowly.
“It just feels…” I trail off. Luca immediately sees where this is headed like some sort of fortune teller.
“Girl, don’t do it. I’m telling you,” he shakes his head.
I look at him.
“…yeah.” I laugh it off.
I glance around the bar once more, almost hoping my eyes were deceiving me the first time. He’s not there. Luca’s right; he really does just disappear.
I shake my head out, trying to get myself to live in reality.
“Hey,” Luca says suddenly, snapping me out of it. “You’re playing here again next Friday, right?”
“Yeah. Friday.”
He grins.
“I wouldn’t advise anything… that’s how girls get snatched up, but he does come most Fridays,” he starts. “Maybe you’ll see him then.”
I nod.
He shrugs, smug. “But don’t haunt me when that Dateline episode comes out, ’cause girl I told you not to.”
We laugh it off, but as I glance at the door one more time, I realize I can’t shake what just happened.
Maybe he’ll come back.
I hate that I’m hoping he does.
