4. Sasha

4

SASHA

W e’d barely made it. Glass had heard about this place through a friend of a friend, and by the time we crossed town, we were already late. Typical. I could feel the weight of my notebooks in my bag, the familiar pressure of the poems I carry with me everywhere, but tonight wasn’t about me. It rarely is when Glass performs. He has this way of commanding a room that makes my own voice feel quieter in comparison—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes me step back and listen, to let him take the stage while I watch. Our styles are too different, like two sides of the same coin, and when he speaks, the air changes.

The door swings open, and I rush in, bringing the heavy night air with me. My eyes sweep across the room, hoping we haven’t missed everything. I glance around quickly, scanning the small crowd—and that’s when I see her.

She’s sitting at the back of the room, barely lit by the soft lamps scattered around the bookstore. Her presence hits me like a punch to the chest, unexpected and intense. She’s holding a coffee cup, her fingers curled around it like she’s trying to steady herself. There’s something about her that pulls me in instantly, as if I’ve known her in another life—or at least that’s what it feels like. Her rich brown hair is pulled back loosely, her skin glows faintly in the dim light, and her eyes… God, her eyes. They’re sharp but soft, like she’s watching the world and trying to understand it all at once.

My heart skips, and for a second, all I want to do is walk straight over to her. To sit across from her, maybe not even say anything—just be in her presence and know her somehow. It’s a strange feeling, sudden and insistent, like a magnet pulling me toward her. I don’t even know her name, but I’m already drawn to her in a way I can’t explain. The bookstore seems smaller suddenly, the rest of the room fading into the background as I imagine what it would be like to sit beside her, to feel the warmth of her gaze on me.

But then, I remember Glass.

I glance back at him still standing in the doorway behind me and pull him forward instinctively. It’s not time to indulge whatever this feeling is; I have a friend to support. I weave through the chairs with him, my hand still gripping his as I pull him toward the front of the room. We sit down, side by side, and I let the tension in my body ease as I take in the cozy, intimate space.

As Glass steps up to the microphone, the room quietens, and I feel the energy shift again. He’s in his element now, and I lean forward in my chair, letting the anticipation settle over me. Even though I’ve heard him perform countless times, every time feels like the first. His words always hit somewhere deep, in a place I sometimes forget exists until he reminds me.

When he begins, I feel the first stirrings of emotion rising in my chest. His poem cuts through me, every line about love’s fragility, about the way we shatter ourselves in the hands of those we trust. And as he speaks, I can feel my heart splintering along with the images he creates. His voice, soft and steady, weaves through the room, and I can’t hold back the tears.

They come slowly at first, silent and warm, trailing down my cheeks as I listen. I don’t wipe them away. I let them fall because there’s something cathartic about it, something cleansing in letting the emotion pass through me. Glass speaks of fragility, but what he doesn’t say is that in breaking, we can also find a kind of beauty. A kind of strength in knowing that we were once whole, even if we aren’t now.

When he finishes, the room is still for a beat longer, and I blink away the remaining tears, trying to collect myself. I glance back, almost instinctively, to see if she’s still there—the woman at the back. And she is still watching us with that same intense gaze. The pull is still there, stronger now.

But for now, I stay where I am.

Glass finishes his performance, and for a moment, the room lingers in that silence that always follows something powerful. But then, like clockwork, people start to stand, the gentle murmur of conversation filling the space again. The regulars know the drill—chairs get stacked, tables moved back to their places. There’s a kind of rhythm to it, and without needing much direction, Glass and I follow their lead, adding our chairs to the growing pile in the corner.

A few people approach Glass, eager to introduce themselves. They’re kind, warm, and clearly taken with his performance. One of the older women—a regular by the looks of it—clutches a small stack of books to her chest as she asks, “You coming back, honey? You should. Your work…well, it moved me. We get a bigger crowd on the weekends, though, so you’d really kill it then.”

He smiles politely, dipping his head slightly. “Thank you. I’d love to come back, but I can’t make weekends too often. I work a lot of late shifts, but Wednesdays”—he glances over at me for confirmation, and I smile back—“I think Wednesdays might be my new thing.”

There’s a shared sense of approval in the room, and people nod in understanding. But her words stick with me: The weekends are better, bigger crowds. As Glass continues his polite conversations, promising to return, I find myself turning the idea over in my mind. I’ve been coming to poetry events with Glass, always content to let him take the stage, but something about the energy here tonight, the quiet yet engaged crowd, makes me think that maybe I could step up next time. Maybe the bigger crowd on Friday would be the push I need to finally read something of my own.

The thought simmers in the back of my mind as we finish tidying up and say our goodbyes. I tell myself that I might just come back on Friday, notebook in hand. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind Glass’s performances and let my own voice be heard.

As I gather my bag and notebook, the thought of Friday still lingering, I can’t help but think about the woman. The one who seemed to pull me in the moment I walked through the door. I scan the room, hoping to catch another glimpse of her, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Did she leave already? Did I miss my chance to…what? Say hello? Ask her name? I’m not even sure what I was hoping for, but the tug of disappointment settles in my chest.

Just as I turn to leave, I see her. She’s behind the counter now, quietly stacking books with an easy grace, her hair slightly tousled from the evening. She’s focused, but there’s a softness to her movements, like this is where she belongs, tending to her little corner of the world in the quiet moments of the night.

For a split second, our eyes meet again, and my heart skips a beat just like before. The intensity from earlier returns, a steady hum in the background that I can’t quite shake. She doesn’t say anything—just offers a small, polite smile as she continues with her work.

And I realize that maybe coming back on Friday isn’t just about the poetry after all.

Thursday rolls around, and I find myself in one of New Orleans’ many parks, sprawled out on a bench under the shade of a large oak tree. The sun is high, but the heat isn’t unbearable yet. The air is thick with the familiar southern humidity, but there’s a light breeze today, one that carries the faint scent of magnolias and damp earth. It’s the kind of weather that feels heavy on your skin but comforting at the same time, like being wrapped in a warm blanket you can’t quite escape.

The park is alive with the usual characters. A group of kids races past on bicycles, their laughter cutting through the quiet. Nearby, an older man sits on a bench with a newspaper folded on his lap, nodding along to the sound of a saxophone playing in the distance. The music floats through the trees, slow and melancholic, as if the city itself is taking a deep breath between the busy hours of the morning and the chaos that will inevitably arrive in the evening.

Across the lawn, there’s a woman walking her dog—an enormous mutt with a shaggy coat and a smile that seems too big for its face. They move slowly, meandering through the park like they have nowhere to be, and I find myself watching them for a moment, feeling a pang of something that’s both loneliness and comfort. New Orleans is full of people like this—people who take their time, who move at their own pace, who seem to understand that life here isn’t about the destination but the moments you live along the way.

I’ve got my notebook open on my lap and a half-empty iced coffee sitting on the bench beside me. The pages are scattered with thoughts from last night—scribbles and phrases that don’t quite form a complete picture yet but are circling around something I know is there, just waiting to come together. The bookstore, Glass’s performance, that woman behind the counter—all of it lingers in my mind, and I can’t shake the need to write it out and make sense of it.

The words come slowly at first, like they’re testing the waters. I write about fragility, about the way we create ourselves in the image of others, and how easily that image can shatter. But there’s something else in there, something more hopeful. Last night felt like the beginning of something—not just for Glass, but for me. It’s as if the city itself, with all its ghosts and history, is offering me a space to finally say the things I’ve been holding back.

A warm gust of wind blows through the trees, rustling the leaves and carrying with it the distant chatter of a group of people playing frisbee nearby. The park is full of life and of stories, and I find myself drawing energy from it. There’s a rhythm to New Orleans that gets into your bones if you let it, a pulse that makes everything seem more alive, more real. The city is always creating, always renewing itself, and I feel that same pull within me.

I write about the connection I felt last night, about the woman whose eyes seemed to see right through me in that split second before I pulled Glass toward the front of the room. There was something there, something I can’t explain, but I’m letting the feeling guide me now, letting it pour into the poem I’m shaping. It’s not perfect yet—far from it—but the ideas are there, raw and honest, just waiting to be refined.

I sit back for a moment, closing my eyes and letting the sounds of the park wash over me: the soft clink as a couple nearby sets up a picnic, the steady buzz of cicadas in the distance, the low rumble of a streetcar somewhere on the other side of the trees. I breathe it all in, the essence of this city that I’ve come to love so much.

The sun begins to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass, but I’m in no hurry to leave. I can feel the energy of the day seeping into my work, pushing me forward. Friday is coming fast, and for the first time in a long while, I’m ready to step up and speak, to take the stage and let my voice be heard.

Inspired by the quiet magic of the park, the people moving through it like characters in their own stories, and the lingering emotion of last night, I start to write again—this time with more certainty. There’s something here, something worth sharing, and I’m determined to see it through.

I glance down at my phone, and the peaceful rhythm I’d settled into suddenly shatters. The time blinks back at me. Damn, I’m running late. My shift at the wing place starts in less than an hour, and I’m all the way across town.

I quickly cap my pen and shove my notebook into my bag, my mind already switching gears. As much as I’d love to stay here lost in the words, reality calls. The wing place isn’t exactly a dream job, but I need every last dollar if I want to keep this city as my home.

With one last look at the park, I sling my bag over my shoulder and start heading toward the street, the echoes of the day’s writing still lingering in my mind. There’s always something about New Orleans, something that keeps me going, even on the busiest days.

I weave through the usual midday crowds, stepping back into the rhythm of the city.

It’s the end of the night, and the restaurant is finally winding down. The last group of regulars has finished up their wings and beers, and I’ve already started clearing the tables, wiping down surfaces, and stacking menus for the next shift. The usual chatter has died down, leaving the faint hum of the kitchen and the soft clink of glassware as Jackson and the rest of the crew wrap up. I’m tired, but it’s the kind of tired that feels good. The shift went smoothly, and the tips were better than usual.

I slip behind the counter, untying my apron and folding it neatly before hanging it up. "Goodnight, Jackson," I call out, flashing him a grin as I stretch my arms, feeling the tension ease out of my back.

Jackson is behind the bar, wiping it down with a rag, his usual laid-back smirk plastered across his face. He’s been running this place for years, and he’s got that cool, unbothered attitude that comes from seeing it all. He looks up at me and waves me over.

“Hold on a sec, Sasha.” He pulls a thick wad of cash out of the register and flips through the bills. He counts out my tips, dropping them into a small envelope before handing it over. “This is for you. You did good tonight. Tables were happy, beers were flowing, and the regulars wouldn’t shut up about your smile.” He winks as he hands me the envelope.

I take it from him, surprised by the weight of it. "Wow, this feels like a lot," I say, thumbing through the bills. It’s more than I expected, a decent haul for a weekday shift.

Jackson grins. “Like I said, you’ve got a way with the regulars. They like you, Sasha. You keep ‘em happy, and they keep coming back.”

I shake my head with a smile, tucking the envelope into my bag. “Well, it’s nice to be appreciated. But I think I’m off tomorrow,” I say, leaning against the counter, “so don’t expect any more magic until Saturday night.”

“Right, right,” Jackson says, snapping his fingers. “You’ve got the weekend shift. That’s gonna be another busy one, so rest up.”

I’m about to head for the door when Jackson chuckles, glancing over at me with that teasing glint in his eye. “You know,” he says, “if those regulars knew you’re gay, you probably wouldn’t be pulling half the tips you do.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at his remark, but I play along, leaning back against the counter with a grin. “Please,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “if they knew, it would probably just add to their fantasies.”

Jackson lets out a loud, genuine laugh, shaking his head as he finishes wiping down the bar. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that,” he says, still chuckling. “Hell, some of ‘em might tip you even more.”

I laugh, too, the banter easy between us. We’ve had this exchange before, and there’s something lighthearted and fun about it. Jackson’s never weird about it, just enjoys poking fun where he can, and I know it’s all in good humor.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, feeling the weight of the tips resting inside. It’s more than enough to get me through the week, and knowing I’ve got Saturday night to look forward to feels like a good balance. There’s something grounding about this routine—working hard, making good money, and still having enough left in me to chase after the things that really matter: poetry, writing, and maybe, just maybe, the chance to stand in front of a crowd and let them hear my voice for once.

As I push open the door and step out into the warm New Orleans night, I take a deep breath, feeling the energy of the city wash over me. The air is thick with humidity, but it’s comforting, familiar. It wraps around me like the constant hum of the streets—alive, always moving, just like I am.