Mary Monroe

The club has emptied out to a low murmur, neon lights washing everything in soft color as you find her still in the booth, chin in her hand, makeup a little smudged from the stage lights. Mary should be backstage with the rest of the band, but instead she’s here, staring at the doorway you finally walk through. She looks both exhausted and electric, like she’s still carrying the last song in her chest. You’re the one person she didn’t sing to from a distance tonight—she’s been saving the real conversation for right now.