Every single person in this room is looking at Natalie Ramirez.
The hipster dude clutching an IPA like it’s his firstborn son. The girl wearing a faded Nirvana shirt that screams Urban Outfitters. Brendan, the bartender, too distracted to realize he’s made not one but two rumless rum and Cokes. All of them have their eyes glued to the stage.
I finish wiping up a few water rings clinging to the counter and throw my white bar towel over my shoulder, craning my neck around the sea of people to get a better view. The stage lights cast an odd purplish hue over everything. Her face is outlined in shades of lilac and violet, and her long black hair shines a deep burgundy. I watch as her hands move up and down the neck of the guitar without so much as a second glance, every fret memorized, the feel of the strings ingrained in her fingertips.
Because while all eyes are on her, Natalie Ramirez is only looking at me.
She gives me a small, secret smile. The same one that gave me butterflies five whole months ago, when her band first performed at Tilted Rabbit. It was the best performance I’ve seen in the three years I’ve worked here. Being a small local venue, we’ve had our fair share of Alanis Morissette wannabes and weekend warrior cover bands. There was a guy just last week who tried to go full Neutral Milk Hotel and play a saw for an hour straight, the sound so screeching that everyone except my coworkers and his girlfriend left the building…
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