Tastes like ashes in my mouth
Every now and then the truth will out
She held the last note delicately, letting it trail off into a wisp of crystal-pure sound.
And she was still.
Someone sighed audibly, and she could swear a few beer coasters were being used to dab eyes.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “That’s it for now.”
The audience erupted in joyous noise, including some foot stomping andWooooing, and a few people managed those two-finger whistles that Glory always wished she could do but never could, no matter how Jonah and Eli tried to teach her.
Glenn swooped in for the mic and she do-si-do’d him as she went to put her guitar back in its case. “Just brilliant,” he murmured to her in passing. To the audience he said, “Glory Greenleaf, everybody! Wasn’t shewonderful? Thank you, Glory! You are a gift to us all. Next up... um... Mick Macklemore, apparently?” Glenn shot a worried glance at Glory.
She shrugged.
Some polite yet skeptical pattering of hands ensued. They were still in a lovely haze of musical goodwill and had high hopes that the fine entertainment would continue.
Mick staggered from his table, dodged the still-twirling Marvin—the music never really ended in Marvin’s head—walked toward the stage, and crashed shins first into it. It was pretty clear he wanted to take that step up onto it, but he was much too drunk and he was clearly puzzled about how to go about it. He tried it again with the same result. Finally, he sat carefully down on the edge of the stage, tipped over onto his side, pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then used the microphone stand to haul himself upright, as though he was climbing a rope. The mic protested with a few squeals of feedback.
Drunk musicians. Nothing everyone here hadn’t seen before.
He swayed like a dandelion in a gentle breeze.
“Okay, quiet everyone. Quiet,” he ordered. Even though everyone was staring in mute fascination. “Thish ishimportant.”
He belched softly into his fist. Then he gave an inaugural toot on the kazoo.Honk.As if tuning it up or testing to see if it still worked.
“Great chops, man!” some wit hollered.
“Okay. Okay,” Mick said into the mic. “This is called ‘She’sh Wrong.’ Anna one anna two anna three anna four!”
He blew out a blues riff on the kazoo:BA DA DA DA DUN!
“Booooo!” someone assessed correctly.
Glory hovered next to the stage, riveted in a “look at that train wreck” sort of way.
Foreboding was prickling her scalp.
Mick tooted the blues riff again:BA DA DA DAA DA DUN!
And then he growled boozily into the microphone while thumping his foot against the stage.
Lemme tell you a story
(BA DA DA DAA DA DUN)
About a girl named Glory
(BA DA DA DAA DA DUN)
She says I’m a dud in bed
(BA DA DA DAA DA DUN)
But she’s GREAT AT GIVING HEA—
