One Nice Bug Per Day
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Today's Document
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
blake kathryn
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Mike Driver
RMH
Janaina Medeiros
JBB: An Artblog!
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almost home
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Jules of Nature
Origami Around
DEAR READER
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@colbyvogel
FULL NAME — Colby Vogel FACECLAIM — Renee Rapp GENDER & PRONOUNS — cis woman, she/her AGE — 27 BIRTHDAY — May 5, 1997 OCCUPATION — Associate at Soundscape Records/Singer RESIDENCE —Skyline Lofts, The Loft District LENGTH OF TIME IN WILLOW PARK — A week
BIOGRAPHY | STATISTICS
a missing penny here and there wouldn’t do much to damage the rietveld fortune. eddie felt almost dirty using it ; handing over coins and buttons and pieces of pocket lint made him feel like less of a phony. his eyes, somewhere between pale blue and grey, caught the stranger’s little disappearing act, but it was easier not to speak up. enjoy it, he thought. put it towards something nice. he gratefully took his own and slipped in into his wallet, tucking it into the back pocket of his pants. “get this girl all the cherries.” eddie smiled at the bartender and knocked his fist against the wood, as if his display would convince the worker to hand over all their little red fruits — some sort of fresh produce hostage situation. he fixed his glasses with one finger, nodding at the rockstar, waving his hand dismissively. “it’s just a drink. you can pay me back with a signed album so i can keep it close and sell it for ten times the price in a year or two.” whisky clinked against the bright red fruit punch. eddie grabbed his carton of cigarettes from the pocket in his shirt and asked, as he stepped away from the bar, “you smoke ? ” whether she did or didn’t, he moved towards the smoking area as if walking on air. the conversation had sobered him up enough that he no longer tripped over his toes with every step, although he struggled to maintain a straight line as he weaved through patrons, excusing himself whenever he came too close to knocking into anyone. with the cold night air on their faces, he hung a smoke between his lips and illuminated the darkness with flame. eddie took a drag, holding the cigarette in his first and second fingers, clutching his glass with the others. “an archaeologist, yes. you can ask me whatever questions you like. it’s sort of my job, actually. i’m less into fieldwork now, so i’m based up at the museum,” his spare hand gestured indeterminately in the general direction of the institution. “less bones and pottery and more dusting and teaching, but it pays the bills and keeps me busy. it’s the family business. if you get a chance to look on the ol' google, search for eugene rietveld and see if you see the resemblance.” eddie breathed through his teeth and tapped the growing tower of ash away onto the ground. “the name’s edwin, not milo. but eddie’ll do just fine. colby sounds like a second name to me. you could just go by that, you know — like prince.” he would stick with rockstar. easier that way. another tendril of smoke twirled from his lips like a hand flexing its fingers. “i keep busy with mostly research these days. curation, conservation, the occasional appraisal. those sorts of things.”
Colby squealed with glee at the sight of how many cherries she got in her drink. They'd said all the cherries, and the bartender seemed to have obliged. She was still giggling when she clinked her glass with Milo's, and stirred them into her drink before taking a sip. "Don't joke about a signed album, I will actually get you one," she said.
He walked out, weaving through the crowd, barely waiting for her on his way to the smoking area, and she had to admit she was kind of impressed. He was much more assertive than she'd originally expected from someone so bookish looking. Maybe it was his height that made people move out of the way for him.
"I quit smoking when I quit drinking," she admitted once they were out in the cool air. I don't mind if you do, though... the smell is kind of nostalgic now." She'd gotten a lot better at resisting temptation in recent months. It was why her sponsor trusted her enough to let her use his apartment while he traveled. A year ago, she would have been holding ragers and trashing the place. It was strange how quickly things could change.
"Just Colby. You think? I guess Colby Vogel is a bit of a mouthful. Not sure what my parents were thinking with that one," she smirked. She watched him smoke, and watched her own breath fog up with nothing but warm air.
A question sat on her tongue. He'd said she could ask whatever she liked, but the thing she wanted to know was less about archaeology and more about him. She tried to be cool and polite and whatever, but she was still herself, and her impulses had to win out sometime, so she asked. "So if your job could contain adventures and bones and tombs and things, why did you choose dusting and teaching?"
The corner of her mouth quirked up at that, amusement flickering in her gaze. "An air of importance?" Amara echoed, letting out a soft chuckle. "Wow. That’s either the best compliment I’ve gotten all week or a very polite way of saying I look like I don’t know how to have fun."
She gave a playful shrug. "But, hey, if looking important works for me, then I guess I’ll take it." Amara paused, taking a sip of her drink before responding with a mock-serious tone, "Though I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was just too busy for anything remotely embarrassing like TikTok dances." She winked, her voice lightening. "Maybe if I started a TikTok for business consulting, though, you'd have to help me get the choreography right. You're the professional, after all."
She leaned back, allowing a more genuine smile to spread across her face. "I run a business and help my brothers with theirs from time to time. It's a mix of event planning, business consulting, all that jazz." She shrugged lightly, a playful glint in her eyes. "Nothing too glamorous, but it keeps me busy." Amara cocked her head slightly, the curiosity returning to her expression. "So, what about you? What's the deal with your igloo test runs? I’m guessing there’s a story there."
Colby laughed. "Well, I can't say whether you know how to have fun... what's fun look like for you?"
There was an aspect to Colby's voice that always made her sound like she was flirting. It wasn't her fault, it was just how she was. This time, of course, she actually was flirting, but one never knew.
"It absolutely does work for you," she smiled. She laughed at the idea of choreographing a TikTok dance for a business consultant, and wondered what that would even look like. "I'm not a great dancer myself... but if you need a little jingle for your business, I can write you one of those. Might have to get your name first, of course."
"Event planning seems fun, actually. What kind of events, like parties? Or business conferences. Because there's a big gap in fun levels between those," she said. Everything in Colby's life was measured by fun levels. It was probably why she was stuck singing in an igloo while women like this one ran successful businesses.
"Oh, I just sing anywhere people will let me. And a lot of places people don't ask me to. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to do. So if you ever need a singer for one of your parties or anything, you know who to call," she laughed. "I do work at Soundscape Vinyl too, just to pay the bills. You should come by. I've got a talent for picking out the perfect album for a person."
WHO: mimi becker & colby vogel ( @colbyvogel )
WHERE: dough re mi, sycamore row
WHEN: sunday 9th february 2025
One of the main issues of working in a spa was the chance of the dreaded Sunday shift. Back in Jersey, Mimi didn’t mind too much about giving up her weekends, especially when it helped her clock more hours for her qualifications. But here in Chicago, she now had a schedule that required her to be in during the weekdays, giving her freedom to do what she pleased at the end of the week. But that Sunday she was woken by the sound of her phone ringing — and who knew she would have preferred the ever-irritating melody of her alarm — with her manager on the other end of the call, asking if there was a chance she could come in as one of the other spa therapists had called in sick. And she was too much of a people pleaser to say no.
So there she found herself, groggy and half asleep on a crisp Sunday morning, trying her best to look as put together and professional as possible to the customers paying a lot for their weekend massages, deciding a coffee and a pastry would fix her. Dough Re Mi was close enough to her apartment, thus giving her some time to sit in and eat instead of trying to rush it down her as she headed over to the spa. Or to somewhat doze off, maybe. It wasn’t necessarily even that early, but her body had refused to accept the lack of a sleep-in, her eyes glazing over from the little table she was sat by as she waited for her name to be called, as if she could sleep with them wide open.
It wasn’t until she heard someone call her name that snapped her out of her daze, smiling sheepishly at the pretty blonde standing in front of her. “Huh?” She asked intelligently, shaking her head as if trying to shake some sense into herself. “Oh god, sorry. Was in my own little world there…”
Even after all this time, it was weird to be awake on a Sunday morning. For most of Colby's adult life, these hours were for sleeping or being sick or otherwise recovering from whatever mess had happened on Saturday night. Sometimes Sunday mornings and Saturday nights had bled together, because sleep was for the weak, and she would just keep the party going until it inevitably ended badly.
She reached into her coat pocket and felt for her keys - she didn't need to see it, she just needed to feel the outline of her One Year Sober keychain. The sun was shining, the snow was glittery, and she was awake, and aware, and alive, and it was Sunday morning.
She still needed coffee though - one of her last addictions left - and chose a cute little bakery that reminded her of one she used to go to in New York. While in line, she admired the sleepy woman in front of her - she was beautiful and polished and looked like she might fall asleep standing up. Ever the knight in shining armor, Colby was ready to catch her in case that happened. Unfortunately (or fortunately, really) they were both able to order without her damsel being in distress.
That was, until the barista called the name Mimi about six times, while the pretty sleepy woman stared off into space, probably daydreaming about her soft bed. When they called her name next, Colby chuckled to herself, grabbed both orders, and walked over tentatively. "Are you Mimi?" she asked (more gently than she ever usually spoke).
"Your little world looks very comfortable," she smiled, setting both orders down, sitting (uninvited) across from Mimi, and taking a sip of her cappuccino. "Mind if I join you?"
Simon nodded, able to understand. He'd definitely had more than one night where a clearer head prevailed. His usual poison in that scenario was ginger ale in a champagne flute if he was trying to mask his sobriety, but the bitches with tomatoes made him laugh. "Do people usually stalk you with rotting fruit? Because I thought your performance was way better than that."
Her grin was a thing of beauty and tugged one out of him as well. He'd made the comment in complete sincerity, but now he was glad he had. "You're welcome. I never would've guessed it was a first performance, and honestly, it resonated. I don't have a lot of breakup experience, but that's what it felt like when I was going through my last one, and for some time after."
Of course, he left out the part about bitterness taking hold during what he now called the 'clerical phase' of divorce. He hoped he was dead to his ex-wife and that she didn't think of him at all. He thought of her very little, and it wasn't in any sort of a reminiscent way when he did.
He had to clear his throat, wishing for the bourbon that was now on the ground, but not enough to kneel down and start lapping at the floor. "I've dabbled. I'm a pretty casual musician, honestly. I had to take some poetry classes in college, which is the closest I've come to doing it for any length of time. It was.... not good."
He chuckled. "You caught me. If you squint really hard, you'll realize I'm Dansby Swanson, going incognito for the night."
"Nobody's thrown rotting fruit at me yet, but the chances are never zero," Colby smirked. "Constant vigilance is necessary to survive in this industry. I assume."
Colby nodded. SIlently, she wondered if that meant this man was mostly a long-term-relationships guy or a casual-hookups guy, but she thought it might send the wrong kind of message if she asked. "I don't have a ton of breakup experience either, honestly... but I've learned all it really takes is one good horrible heartbreak to fuck you up enough for real writing inspiration," she laughed.
"Oh my god, I took a poetry class in college! It was horrible! Absolute worst kind of pretentious people in there. Did you have anyone who thought they were the most profound human ever to grace the planet? Some of them at open mic nights too, oof," she shook her head. "I imagine some people say the same thing about me, though."
As soon as he said the name Dansby Swanson, there was a flash of recognition in her mind. She didn't exactly follow any sports, but she made sure to know enough to keep up with the sporty girls she loved to hit on... and Dansby Swanson did look a lot like this guy. But she couldn't be here talking to Dansby fucking Swanson...
"Bro, don't do that to me, I'm way too gullible," she said. "Literally who are you?"
Yes, she’s hiding from someone, but it’s not like they know she’s hiding from them. At least she thinks she’s been doing a good job at keeping that under wraps. Then again, what does she know? It’s hard to keep track of things with such a large, sweaty crowd, and that stupid local DJ that keeps blasting Katy Perry remixes, of all things. Douchebags love local DJ sets — but do they love them enough to stick around for Katy fucking Perry?
She looks at the other woman again and laughs at her offer — feels her face warm for a second at the implication of feeling her up, because she may be on a mission right now, but she’s not blind, either. “Is that all being a girlfriend is?” she asks. “Couple of gropes and some compliments? Wish someone had clued me into that sooner,” she jokes. Would’ve probably prolonged most of her relationships, anyway.
Surprising amount of distraction, indeed. She rocks on her heels a little, grinning apologetically, as if the burden should fall on her to do so. “Well — truth be told, I think most people are here for the alcohol and the warmth,” she admits. “But I think you surprised a couple of people. In a good way. I saw some guy’s scowl turn into, like, an interested scowl when you started singing,” she points out encouragingly. “It’s hard to make a scowl turn interested, but you did it.”
Colby was smiling at this pretty girl, admiring her big brown eyes, but was admittedly distracted by the DJ inexplicably playing dubstep Katy Perry in the year of our lord 2025. The smile only faded slightly as her brows furrowed and eyes flicked back to the stage she'd only just left. "Jesus fuck, they really didn't know how to follow my performance, huh?" she joked.
"Hey, I didn't say it was a perfect relationship," she laughed, letting the irritating dubstep fade into the background again. "But it's a start. Although I guess a real start would be getting your name. And maybe your number," she smirked. "I'm Colby, by the way."
"Oh my god, an interested scowl?" she repeated, gasping playfully. "I'll put that on the reviews section of my website. Can you make an interested scowling face for me, please? I need to picture it in my mind," she said, stepping back slightly and making a frame with her index fingers and thumbs.
Amara’s smile softened as she caught the playful tone in Colby’s voice, her eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and curiosity. She had always appreciated the raw, unfiltered energy of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously, and the blonde was certainly a refreshing kind of unexpected. "No, not really, but I guess this time I made an exception."
When Colby mentioned the phone, Amara raised an eyebrow with a slight tilt of her head, amused by the callout. "Busted," she replied with a grin. "I wasn’t working — just… checking in, you know? Old habits die hard. But don’t worry, I was still listening." She shrugged casually. "Next time, I’ll give you my full attention, promise. No distractions."
"Yeah, hey, I don't normally hang out in igloos either," Colby chuckled, "but it seems we both picked a good day to try it out."
She noticed that this woman didn't seem ashamed or embarrassed at the callout - good; she shouldn't. Women always get shit for whatever they do, especially things that nobody would think twice about a man doing. "It's all good. I do like the sound of that next time, though."
"You've just got this air of importance to you, so I knew you weren't, like, watching TikTok dances or something. Although, what do I know - maybe you were. If that's part of your job, hire me, though," she laughed. "What is it that you do? If it's okay to ask."
WHERE: live music igloo dome @ the snow frolic WHO: open!
There was nothing quite as exhilarating as being on a stage. Despite the wintry chill in the air, Alec's cheeks flushed as he left everything he had to give on the stage. His heart still thrummed as though it were trying to keep beat with the music that had long since rang out its final note and he made his way to the bar for his free drink.
He scored a hand through his hair as he slid onto a stool and ordered a whisky for himself. He repeated his order when another bartender swooped by, thinking maybe they'd just forgotten. But apparently it was a lack of communication, because two free drinks landed in front of him, one right after the other. And who was Alec to look inside a horse's mouth? Or whatever that saying was.
He could have been greedy, tossing them back one right after the other and really getting this party started. But perhaps it was the general feeling of community that had him turning to the person seated next to him, sliding the glass over in offering. "You want this? Before you say no, just know I paid real good money for it and it would be bad karma if you did."
"Oh no, not bad karma!" Colby said, feigning deep concern over her cosmic fate if she were to refuse this drink. She took the glass, held it up for him to clink, but then poured it into his glass instead. "I'm a singer too, so I know you didn't pay shit for that," she smiled.
She ordered a Sprite when the bartender came over, and held up her glass to clink (for real this time) when she got it. "To having more talent than this stupid fucking igloo wants to properly appreciate," she said.
It wasn’t often both parties involved in a collision of any kind took responsibility, and it made him chuckle a little. “I can see it,” he agreed, his gaze trained on her shoes. For all his involvement in the arts, he couldn’t have named a specific painter the way she did.
“Sure,” he agreed easily. “Can I buy you one in return since I chucked one at you? We can consider it an apology.”
Flirting came so naturally to him he honestly could barely tell the difference between that and regular conversation.
“I definitely didn’t hate it. I’m a big fan of live music. I like the Fleetwood Mac for sure, but I loved your original music. I’m a total hack at anything resembling lyrics and even worse at performing it.” He tilted his head. “If I’d been trying to throw my drink, I would’ve had better aim, though.”
And there were extremely rare circumstances he’d throw it at a person, but that either went without saying or wasn’t going to be said anyway.
"Okay, a little drink exchange, love that. I'll just get a Coke though. Gotta keep a clear head in case anyone else tries to throw something at me," she joked. "I know some of these bitches have tomatoes in their pockets and they're just waiting..."
She was caught slightly off guard by his admission that he'd loved her original music, and couldn't stop the goofy beaming grin spreading over her face. "Really? Thank you. It was my first time performing Moon, actually. Wrote it ages ago, though." He said he was a hack at writing lyrics, and she tilted her head a bit. "Well, that sounds like you've tried writing music, though. Most people don't even try. Trying is step one."
He said he'd have better aim if he'd been trying to hit her with the drink, and she nodded, keeping a straight face. "Yeah, you absolutely look like an athlete. You play for the Cubs?"
“non - alcoholic ? ” at first he wondered if it was ironic, if it was a comment on the roaring seventies that she had just been singing about, but after a beat of silence he caught the sincerity and raised both his hands, “non - alcoholic it is ! ” eddie led their way to the bar, thankful for his towering height that made everyone around him look like miniatures, fumbling for his wallet and dropping a few stray pennies onto the floor. trust him to be the only person that still used cash ; eddie himself was stuck in the dark ages. his knuckles tapped against the bar. “we’ll get another whisky, and whatever the lady wants — no alcohol. what are you thinking? cranberry, oj?” eddie pulled out a ragged, creased twenty dollar bill, alongside a button and a loyalty card for a bespoke trowel company. he shoved the unnecessary discoveries back into his pocket. “milo thatch?” he finally understood, as though he was on a delay, “from atlantis? now, that film is good for disney’s standards, but atlantis isn’t real — it’s allegorical. plato wanted to warn his contemporaries about the dangers of democracy. of hubris. of doom.” he leaned forward and spoke the last word all - too - close to other’s face. when their drinks arrived, he handed the rockstar’s hers first. “not a librarian. an archaeologist. and are you really a rockstar, rockstar?”
She followed him and watched as the seas parted as he walked. He had such a commanding presence for a nerdy little guy. When he spilled some pennies - who still used cash? - Colby dipped down to pick two of them up. She pocketed one, and held one out to Milo Thatch. "It's good luck even if you drop them yourself, right?" she smiled.
He asked what she wanted to drink, and, like everything else in her life, Colby decided to get a bit ridiculous with it. "A Shirley Temple, please," she said, batting her lashes at the bartender, "with extra cherries. Truly too many cherries. All the cherries you have, really. Thank you." She turned to Milo Thatch, then, and her smile got more genuine, as did her second "Thank you."
She laughed as he understood the name, and listened with genuine interest as he explained what Atlantis really was. She'd never been too concerned with whether anything was real or just a story, as long as it was interesting. But the reality of things seemed important to Milo Thatch, so she listened. And whispered "of doom" after he did, her eyes sparkling.
He handed over her ridiculous-looking drink, and she smiled, holding up the glass to clink with his. "An archaeologist! For real? Never met an archaeologist in my life, I need to ask you twelve thousand questions, actually..." she laughed. "But for now maybe I will start with your name. Mine's Colby. But you can keep calling me Rockstar, I'm kind of into that."
"I'm not a real rockstar... yet," she said. "For now, I'm just working at Soundscape Vinyl and trying to get my life back together. Please tell me more about your life, though. What do you actually do? Because I know you're not digging up any ruins in Chicago... right?"
Santiago chuckled warmly, his Texan drawl soft as he steadied himself after the collision. “Whoa there, darlin’. No harm done,” he said, holding up his hands in a friendly, disengaging gesture. His umber hues sparkled with amusement as he looked the other over, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you good? You came down those steps like a goddamn tornado - I didn’t stand a chance.”
He stepped back slightly to give her space, brushing a hand over the front of his coat out of habit. “That was one hell of a performance you just gave. Seriously, you’ve got a voice on you.” He tilted his head toward the stage, pointing over towards it. “Fleetwood Mac was a good choice. Can’t go wrong with Stevie Nicks; she’s a legend. Reckon she’d tip her hat to those covers.”
Immediately, Colby was obsessed with this man's entire vibe. She didn't know where he was from, but she wanted to live there - at least long enough to develop that accent that made her want to run with wild horses. Inexplicably though, this guy seemed to fit into the city perfectly. He carried himself with a city sort of swagger she couldn't explain.
"Oh my god," she smiled, "Call me darlin' every single day, please."
He called her a tornado, and she felt seen and understood. "Nobody stands a chance while I'm around. It's good you found that out so soon, honestly," she laughed.
He complimented her singing, and he meant it, and he mentioned Stevie Nicks by name, and she could feel herself about to become even more annoying. "Shut up, do you really think so? She's my hero, I want to be her so bad. I'm thinking about putting a band together just so I can break the heart of my guitar player and we can write better songs," she smirked. Not that she needed help in the area of writing breakup songs - as this guy might know if he'd been listening to her originals too. She was a bit afraid to ask.
"My name's Colby Vogel. What's yours, cowboy?" she asked instead.
Ellie has a habit of finding herself in the way. Of anything, really — people, places, things, danger. She’d like to say it’s not her fault, but it’s definitely her fault, and it’s definitely almost always on purpose. Not this time, though — this time, she’s mostly trying to stay out of the way so she can keep an eye on the sketchy dude she’s seen coming in and out of The Bank so many times, always with someone new on his arm, always talking up his importance at his job.
The very same company owned by one of the motherfuckers pinned up to the secret board in Ellie’s closet, and, listen, she’s extremely normal about things, alright? There’s nothing weird about investigating people through smaller, unimportant people, especially when that’s the only avenue they’ve left you to explore. Can’t exactly keep showing up to the places they’ve already deemed you persona non grata, or whatever.
It’s a very mild chase, what she’s doing, when she runs into the singer that’s just coming off the stage — fantastic voice, had her tapping her toes to Fleetwood Mac in between the light stalking she’s been doing — and she can’t help but hold out her hands to steady herself against the blonde’s arms. “Whoops!” She grins. “I’m fine, I’m good, sorry,” she talks over the emcee introducing some other local artist that’s probably gonna DJ or something, with a stage name like Mouse Underground Local. “That was my bad, wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She glances behind the girl and curses under her breath — she lost the douchebag. He can’t have gone far, though. Douchebags love local DJ sets, right? She meets the other’s gaze and blinks, realizing she’s been holding on to her arms this entire time. “Oh,” she pulls back, grinning sheepishly. “Yep, those are your arms,” she pockets her hands in her coat. “You were great up there, by the way! I can carry a tune in karaoke, but fuck me, you can like, actually sing, huh?”
Considering she was still riding her musical high, and distracted by the pretty girl currently holding onto her arms, Colby can be forgiven for completely misunderstanding this interaction. Even without those distractions, one wouldn't exactly jump to the conclusion of a detective on a chase in a place like this. All Colby saw was a look over her shoulder, and an expression of disappointment, and she latched onto the conclusion that she wanted to be true.
"Ooh, are we hiding from somebody? Listen, if you need me to pretend to be your girlfriend, you've already felt me up and complimented me, so we're halfway there," she smirked. "Thank you though, for real, that's really nice. I think you may have been the only one listening. Surprising amount of distractions in an igloo, turns out."
Amara had been leaning against the side of the igloo dome, sipping from her mug of hot chocolate, distracted by the warmth of the drink and the buzz of conversation around her. She wasn’t exactly paying full attention to Colby’s performance, but the voice had caught her ear a few times, and she nodded along when she recognized the song. Every now and then, she checked her phone for work emails, scrolling through them without thinking much about it.
But just as Colby finished her set and skipped down from the stage, Amara, lost in her own little world, didn’t quite see her coming. The collision was quick, and before she could step aside, she felt the impact of Colby bumping into her. "Whoa!" Amara said, laughing as she steadied herself. "I’m short, but I didn’t think I was invisible short!" She gave a teasing grin, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. "No harm done though, I hope. You good?"
"Oh, you are certainly not invisible," Colby smiled, inexplicably attempting to flirt with a woman she'd just completely barrelled into. "Come to this igloo often?"
She caught herself after a moment, and shook her head, still smirking. "Sorry, I think I, like, travel to a different plane of existence when I sing, and then sometimes I forget to come back. But I'm here now. And I'm good."
Remembering something, she narrowed her eyes playfully. "I saw you on your phone during my set. That's not a callout - literally nobody was paying attention, I don't expect it - just tell me you weren't working."
Though he was well-versed at speaking in public, in a variety of circumstances, his musical performances were reserved for a party of two, maximum. They also only happened when he was drunk and feeling some type of way. He'd grown to really love live music, and to find the performers with the skill and courage to take the stage inspirational. They were doing something he never would, so he could almost never find fault with their music. Instead of trying with any kind of a critical eye, he was in the habit of listening and watching intently, a little awestruck.
Probably the only explanation for why he was standing in the singer's way as she came off stage. His hand shot out reflexively to help steady her even as she stepped back, and his drink plummeted to the ground. He'd had worse, for sure. It was still embarrassing.
Her candor made him chuckle. "Good for someone who was standing in your way. Sure. Did I spill on you?"
"Oh my God, no, you weren't even in the way, I'm just a train with no brakes over here," Colby laughed. She looked down and noticed a couple splashes of his drink on her shoes, and tilted her head. "You know what, it's kinda artsy, actually. You see that? Like a Jackson Pollock. Total improvement. Can't say the same for your drink, though - can I buy you a new one?"
She hoped he wouldn't read too much into the offer - or that whoever had a matching ring to the one she noticed he wore wouldn't, at least. She did have a tendency to accidentally flirt with literally everyone, and men didn't always take kindly to that. He seemed nice enough, though, so she didn't take the offer back.
"Did you like the performance, by the way? Or did you hate it, and that's why you threw your drink at me as soon as I came offstage?"
eddie was already too far gone. drinks inside an igloo ? it was unheard of. he had once spent an extended trip in the himalayas when his father heard that they may have found the final resting place of the real arthurian sword ; it turned out to be hearsay, and amounted in little more than a freezing cold vacation that left eddie hating the bitter chill of winter. whisky helped to warm his insides maybe a little too well. the usually stoic archaeologist, more accustomed to sitting silently at the back of museums and clearing away thick layers of dust, nodded his head along to the music. fleetwood mac — a classic. eddie mumbled the lyrics under his breath, only interrupted by a quick swig of his quickly dwindling drink. the moment the songs came to an end he realised his cup was empty ; the string - bean of a man collided with something — someone … the star of the show. he righted his glasses on the end of his nose and exclaimed, “you were a rockstar up there!” suddenly it didn’t matter that they had bashed into each other with such velocity. “don’t worry about it — my fault. you want a drink?”
This man was not currently holding a book (that Colby could see) but something about him was extremely bookish. He looked like if one of those beautiful old libraries was a person. Or like, if a history teacher was young. Which was impossible, of course, everyone knew all history teachers were born 65 years old.
He was adorable, and he adjusted his little glasses, and she beamed at him when he called her a rockstar. "Thank you so much, that's so nice!" She could smell the whiskey on his breath, and was proud of herself for only being a little tempted by his offer. "Hell yeah, Milo Thatch, I'd love a drink! Non-alcoholic though, if you don't mind, I'm the boring kind of rockstar these days."
She walked with him toward the bar and couldn't help but ask him "Are you a librarian?"
who: open (4/4) where: the igloo dome what: colby finishes up her set and immediately runs into you
This was an impressive feat, even for Colby. She'd only been in Chicago a week and had already booked a singing gig. Granted, she was singing in an igloo, to a bunch of people paying more attention to their mittens and hot chocolates, and she'd had to incessantly bother more than one event planner to get added to the list of musicians... but it was worth it. She was allowed four songs, so she chose two covers and two originals. Both her covers were Fleetwood Mac, because she would never love anyone more than Stevie Nicks. And both her originals were about the same ex. But nobody in this igloo had to know that part. She sang the last few lines of Go Your Own Way; you can call it another lonely day - and thanked the igloo for its time. Flying on the high of public performance, she dreamily skipped down the steps of the little stage, and ran completely into someone. "Fuck, shit, sorry!" she said, stepping back to assess the damage. "You good?"
When she was angry, her eyes grew dangerous, moist and even larger, maybe she was only really alive when she went too far, went beyond herself and her own limits.
– Ingeborg Bachmann, from “Word for Word,” Three Paths to the Lake: Stories (Holmes & Meier, 1989)
