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.
It’s been ten minutes, and I’m still thinking about it.
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 gets louder. All the sounds that I normally drown out with music come back to me. People get closer. My own thoughts get louder.
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 set 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 that 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.
Vivienne would have something to say about this. She always does. I make a mental note not to tell her.
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's new to me, but I already love it.
Mid-May in Chicago means the 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.
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 decide if it’s even worth it.
Seriously, why do I care?
I slide onto a barstool anyway.
“Water, please,” I say, setting my elbow on the counter.
“Oh honey, water?” Luca 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 the nicest bartender I think I've ever met, most opinionated, too. 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. “You sure? Because I can make you something, girl. The set was tea.”
“Aw, thank you, but I’m 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 I 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.”
That makes me immediately want to backtrack. “I mean, not like… just curious. I didn’t—”
“Oh no, no, no,” he cuts in, waving his hand. “We all are curious, babe.”
"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 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.
“Come on, you mean to tell me that 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?”
“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. I don’t know what I expected him to say. Maybe I was looking for something that would make Dom make sense, some obvious explanation for a man who requests random songs from indie artists and then disappears. Luca doesn’t give me an explanation because there isn’t one. That’s the actual problem.
“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, the calm of his voice. It was nothing 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, smiling it off. “Just thinking.”
He eyes me for a second, then flashes me a slow smile, catching on.
“Don't do it,” he says. “That’s how it starts.”
“How what starts?”
“Curiosity,” he replies, sing-song. “And curiosity? Oh, she’s messy.”
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 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.
The thing is: I know better than this. I know exactly how this starts. You notice someone. You wonder about them. You let yourself wonder a little more than you should. Then, you’re in too deep in something that was never meant to be.
I don’t know.
Maybe he’ll come back.
I hate that I’m already rearranging my setlist for next Friday just in case.
