Lucy Kilgore; the last one? This is #8.
I’m wearing my blonde wig, red cowboy boots, denim mini and a tight v-neck red top.
I never have much to set up, just an amplifier and the microphone’s already in place, but I do like to have my guitar plugged in and it’s then that I see him: Callum Johnson, sitting at a front table, his blue jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, while he draws from a long-neck bottle of some standard American beer. Still no microbrew for Cal.
This post is a two-parter because first today is a solemn day not just set aside for barbecues and picnics. So I wanted to do a little tribute on this Memorial Day to all of those who have given their lives in service.
And below, a new installment of my Lucy Kilgore story, which has a theme somewhat pertinent today. Many thanks. Sascha Darlington
This is the second part of a short story/novella that you will find under categories as Lucy Kilgore. The first part is here. If I’m successful, for the most part each should hopefully be read as a standalone flash fiction. If I’m unsuccessful, it could be confusing. 🙂
I’m beat and the last thing I want to think about is going to a bar with Billy and his entourage. Ever since I got back from Afghanistan he’s been trying to get me to socialize more, date some of the cute nurses from General. Tonight he and his friends are going to Houlihans to hear some woman sing and play her guitar.
You don’t know me, but you probably know women like me. Years ago we would have been called wallflowers and then a few years later painfully shy. These days we may fly under the flag of introvert, but ever since I saw these bubbly blondes on a morning news show call themselves “introverts” I’ve had to reconsider the appellation because those women and me are not the same at all. I could never get in front of a camera with a live audience while also knowing that morning viewers were tuning in to watch me. The only way you might get me to do something like that is if I wasn’t me at all, which is exactly why several nights a week, I am not me.