The air in the pub was thick and warm, clinging to his body like a smothering fog. He had seen Peter thousands of times in his lifetime, but tonight gave him fresh eyes. Tonight, and the next few nights, Peter was welcome to misunderstand. His intention would be concealed behind sorrowful songs – so he hoped as he approached the modest stage.
Fletcher took to the little wooden stool without ceremony. Adjusting the mic stand to his height, he said not a word to the last-call crowd. Hardly empty, despite the hour, despite not being the only bar in this fishing town. Pete’s Pub was never truly dead.
No hellos, no introduction. At least a third of the audience already knew his name. He adjusted his spruce guitar and began strumming a classic.
“Where Did You Sleep Last Night” by Lead Belly, strummed slowly and deliberately as he found his rhythm. Fletcher refused to look up. Not at first. Leaning toward the mic, lips nearly touching as he began to sing in the raspy voice Peter had come to know.
“My girl, my girl, don't lie to me… Tell me, where did you sleep last night?”
The song choice was too on the nose to be anything but intentional, which lent credence to Pete's theory about this being about Fletcher blowing off steam. If that was actually the case, it meant what he'd been told by June about the reasons for Fletcher's divorce were true.
He hadn't exactly doubted her but he supposed confirmation was confirmation.
Whatever the reason though, it was impossible not to be entranced by Fletcher's voice. That went double for the other people at the pub, and triple for those that knew who Fletcher was. Who would've expected this from him? Certainly not them.
But Pete was all too familiar with that voice. All too enamored with it, despite the number of years that had passed since he'd heard it last. He couldn't look away.
