1923. King’s Bar. New York.

I walk into the bar, hands in my pockets, scoping out the situation. There’s a woman in shadows sitting by herself, a drink in her hands. I swagger over to her, doing my best James Dean. I pull up a seat next to her out the counter. An unlit fag hangs from her mouth, dark curls surrounding her beautiful face.

“Need a light?” I say as I whip out my lighter, and the burn of it lights up enough for me to see her sad eyes. I order a drink, scotch on the rocks. I’ve seen this woman before, in a place like this: full of sad, lonely people so consumed by their loneliness that they hide in the shadows, a drink in their hands, ready to give it up to anyone who shows them the least bit of attention.

She finishes her drink, taking sips between each inhale. “Can I buy you another?”

She turns her eyes to me. Those eyes, that’s what kills me the most. I can see everything in her eyes. “You ever been in love before?”

I chuckle and shake my head a little. “I don’t believe in love. ‘Causes too many problems. I got enough of those.”

“I used to be in love.” Her voice sounds so familiar, a voice I’ve heard in my dreams, a sing-song voice.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” And she does. Every detail, down to the very last goodbye. How she used to know a girl, a girl who stole her heart and never gave it back. The girl from a small town who came to the big city and stole the city girl’s heart. “We used to be so in love.” She tells me how they had to hide their love, but it eventually took its toll.

“What was her name? This small town girl?”

She takes a drag from the cigarette. “Spencer.” Like the song.

“Where is she now?”

“Half-way to Ohio.”

They come up to her then, tell her she’s on in five. She puffs up her curly locks, straightens out her cocktail dress. I watch as she walks onto the stage, completely composed, but there’s still a sadness in the way she stands, the way she holds the microphone in her hands.

“I want to tell you a story about a girl I used to know…”

I’m mesmerized by her voice, trapped in the story she just told me minutes ago, though it’s as if she’s telling it for the first time.

…gone and stole my heart and never gave it back

Ain’t nobody ever hurt me like you done…

Another woman has pulled up a chair next to me. Her face is covered by the hat pulled low over her eyes. Blonde hair pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head. Her red dress shimmers in the reflection of the glass held tightly in her hands.   “She’s good, isn’t she?” I ask.

“Yes, she is.” She whispers though I can hear her clearly. She’s watching Ashley with such intensity, I can feel the vibrations coming from her, and if I listen closely, I can hear the thump thump thump of her heart. The song ends and she slinks back into the shadows, desperate not to be seen. But Ashley does see her, notices the golden glow from her hair.

They stare at each other, Spencer in the shadows, Ashley on stage, microphone in her hands. We both watch as Ashley puts the microphone on its stand. For a moment I think she’s going to her, but instead, she sings, a sad song that fits the mood.

Bang bang, she shot me down
Bang bang, I hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, my baby shot me down…

I get up just then, walk towards the door. I got enough problems of my own. Ashley is still singing to Spencer. I can hear her even as I walk down the dark, lonely streets. “You ever been in love?” Never, I tell myself. How I wish that were the truth.

She didn’t even say goodbye
She didn’t take the time to lie…

Bang bang, my baby shot me down

The End.