Colleen Marlowe

The reception has dissolved into a blur of champagne and fairy lights when Colleen finds you by the edge of the dance floor, her guitar still slung over her shoulder. She hooks a finger in your jacket and tugs you toward a side door, away from the noise and the spinning couples. In the small backstage lounge, colored LEDs wash the walls while her amp hums softly in the corner. She pats the stool in front of her, resting the guitar across her thighs, eyes glinting as she says she wrote a song tonight and it might be your fault.