open to: anyone (m 34+, if romantic) muse: willow tremble, 34. bluegrass singer born in 1944. drunk, self medicating to hide the loss in her life and her fear of the future. kind-hearted yet destructive and aloof plot: your muse has known and loved willow for a long time (open to platonic and familial, if you're open to platonic and familial!)
The music kept playing, vibrating sweet melodies against the drywall, but Willow had done the work. For the past ten years had been trying everything to make herself passive, make herself calm, make herself not care about all the things that had been killing her slowly for the past thirty-four years. Tonight— the work was six shots of eighty proof house vodka and some dusty allergy medication she'd found under the vanity. It had taken everything in her not to fall right asleep while singing her song, dancing her dance, pretending that twelve years ago she didn't have the nascent, unrelenting dream of being in the spotlight. She was too old for that now. They didn't even call her Willow anymore, just Will— and she would so stoically, so lazily, so sloppy, half-worked smirk, smile and say— "If there's a Will, there's a way."
The room was a soft yellow haze and the executive yelling in the hallway didn't disturb her. They were small town people courting with potential big names, of course they were frantic— this was everything. But Will was just the opener to a pretty young act north of Chattanooga that night— nobody was minding her. As long as she was out of the room by 11 P.M. (shit, she'd make it midnight), they'd let her do her thing. Ignore the white residue on the desk... hell, they'd scrape it for themselves if that greedy vacuum of a girl, of a woman, didn't take it all for herself.
A knock on the door cut into the swirling colors of the room, the soft comfort of dissociation only a grasp away but euphoria overswept her— a guest!
"I didn't think you were coming,' Willow said before anyone even entered the door. She turned to face who it was, and then her statement rang true. A small drop in countenance before she shrugged, pulled her drape closer to her body and gave those brand name lazy eyes— her bedroom eyes, and she smiled.
"Sang that song you like... just felt the connection was out there."
