Friday Night at the Candlelight Lounge
by
Alexis Rhone Fancher
She
was better than I expected, hunched over the mic, arms and legs entwined with
the silver stand like she was fucking it. My ex-lover, Pete, said she sang jazz
ballads mostly, throaty and low. Almost like Billie, he said, how she
lagged behind the beat, her voice catching on the blue notes. Pete said I
should catch her act, if I was in town. Look, it was June in L.A. — the gloom
fogged my vision. Pete warned me. Careful! She’s bad news. Lonely. Clingy. But
those days I was needy, too. I could care less that her nose was crooked, that
her speaking voice was little more than a whisper. I overlooked her slouch and
her wandering eye, and those clothes she wore, wrinkled Dockers and a
food-stained shirt. After her set, she stood in the doorway. Her untamed black
hair, a frizzy halo. Her hands were in her pockets. Her eyes were on me. She
made my fingers ache. I got up from my ringside table, left my jacket on the
chair. You want a drink? I asked her. When I returned from the bar with
two tequila shooters, she was sitting in my chair. Wearing my jacket. A
noticeable improvement to her outfit. We clinked glasses. Salud! Pete said she was a cheap drunk. Two
rounds after each set, he laughed, she turns into a
slut on wheels. Already
her head sagged against my shoulder. She had a tiny snore I found endearing. Whatever
you do, don’t take her home, Pete warned. Of course, he’d say that. He had
what they call ‘graveyard love’ that ‘I don’t want you anymore but I don’t want
anyone else to have you’ kind of love. The kind of love that makes me want to
do the exact opposite of whatever he asks. So after the club closed, I took her
home. Invited her into my bed. She was ravenous. It wasn’t just sex or tequila,
she consumed my thoughts, my marijuana stash, my peace of mind.
She raided my closet. Stole my favorite thigh-high boots. When she forged my
name on checks, I forgave her. When she rearranged my furniture, re-hung all
the art, I looked the other way. And when Pete snuck into the bedroom one
midnight, begged for forgiveness, wanted a threesome, I welcomed him. Look, I
know it’s crazy, but none of this mattered. What mattered was how she sang love
songs in the shower. What mattered was that first night, at the Candlelight
Lounge, how she stood in the doorway after her set, backlit and dangerously
beautiful.
* * * * *
"Friday
Night at the Candlelight Lounge" was first published in Book of
Matches.
Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry,
Rattle, Hobart, Verse Daily, Plume, Tinderbox, Cleaver, Diode, The American
Journal of Poetry, Spillway, Nashville Review, Poetry East, Gargoyle, and
elsewhere. She’s authored ten poetry collections, most recently, Triggered,
2023 (MacQueen’s Publishing); Brazen, 2023 (NYQ Books); and Duets, (2022)
an illustrated, ekphrastic chapbook collaboration with poet Cynthia Atkins,
published by Harbor Editions. Alexis’s photographs are featured worldwide
including the covers of The Pedestal Magazine, Witness, Heyday, Pithead
Chapel, and The Mas Tequila Review. A multiple Pushcart Prize
and Best of the Net nominee, you can find her at: www.alexisrhonefancher.com
Very compelling from start to finish! Thank you!
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