&&Sylvie’s on fire tonight, and the audience doesn’t know it, not yet. She leans into the microphone, one verse into the song, and plays a chord on her guitar in that drop D tuning that hits me hard. The pitch of her voice is low, to match that low note in the chord, and she stays there with it like a mourning cry. Like an angel praising God. Like an unforgivable sin.

&&There are ten tables in this basement bar, and people are making small talk with each other and sipping their drinks. They’re still checking phones and looking at the menu; they haven’t noticed what Sylvie is doing.

&&Each table has a small candle lit in an empty wine glass. In the middle of the room is a couple; they look comfortable with each other but not intimate. They sit close but don’t touch. They tapped their glasses when they got their first round but didn’t try each other’s drink. Earlier, before Sylvie started, they fought. Frowns, clipped words, and pointing fingers. It stopped as quick as it started, like they didn’t know how to fight. She’s short, he’s bald, she’s fierce, he’s distant. But now they’ve turned to Sylvie. At least those two can tell there’s something different about her now.

&&The ceilings are low in here, making everything feel closer or tighter. Sylvie’s song is fighting against that; it wants space, it wants room to be. She shakes her head to get the hair out of her eyes, but they’re closed anyway, like she wants to be alone. The lyrics talk about new love. Her voice sings about old heartbreak. The guitar puts them both side by side for us to consider. She wrote this for me when we moved in together. The title keeps changing, but whenever she plays it, she says, “This is for you, Holly,” and winks at me.

&&There isn’t a stage for her to be on; it’s not that kind of bar. No spotlight. No one helping with the sound. Sylvie doesn’t need it anyway. She presses her lips against the mic and hums the chorus, as if having sung it once, there’s no need to repeat herself.

&&The audience is quieter now, but she isn’t singing to them anymore. She isn’t singing in hopes that this is the song that will get her noticed someday. That a label exec will hear it and offer her a deal. She isn’t even singing it to me anymore. It’s like she’s turned away from all that and is singing to the song itself.

&&The couple in the center of the room lean toward each other. He says something and kisses her cheek. A moment later she turns away from him and checks her phone. It lights up her face, and there’s a tear on her cheek. She wipes it away with a motion hidden from him.

&&Sylvie’s settled into the song’s bridge in a way that calls everyone together like a congregation. It’s a subtle change that carries us in a different direction without knowing. The woman who was crying a moment ago looks at me watching her. I smile. She nods. A small moment we share.

&&After the bridge, the song is almost over. One last chorus and she’s done. Everyone is focused on Sylvie, even the waitress who is leaning against the wall instead of taking orders. The couple in the center are holding hands now, her head on his shoulder.

&&When Sylvie finishes, she leans her forehead against the microphone. People are clapping louder than they have all night long. A couple of whistles sound out. She looks up and accepts their offering. “Yeah,” she says, “you felt that one too.” She gets up, the first set is done, and makes her way back to me. A few people want to talk; she takes the time, makes the connections.

&&She finally comes back and sits next to me. “How do you do that?” I ask. She takes my hand and kisses my palm. Her lips burn like fire.