Then I Saw Her Face

Part 1: Maggie

• I shouldn't be out tonight. It's finals week, I still have an online exam to finish, but I want no parts of any of it. For some reason, I thought it was a good idea to take my test and write my papers at a friend's house (who also wanted no parts of any of it); I don't typically do this, but it seemed like a good idea. To add to my likely poor judgment, the friend I chose to take finals with has a brother who's in a band...a band who was playing a show during the weekend leading into finals week. But this is not just any band; my friend's brother is in an Irish band. Color me obsessed. So in my state of wanting no parts of finals and looking for any excuse to get out of doing my work, my friend and I slammed our laptops shut, splashed on some hastily-done makeup, and drove to the divey-est little corner bar in all of South Philly. I mustered up my most Mayfair Girl air and marched my way in, weaving my way through the crowd to get a beer and a seat at a table by the door, hoping that the greasy old biker-looking guys would leave me alone if I pulled off enough of a resting bitch face. The oversized flannel should help with that look, I would think...probably not the fitted tank top and leggings painted on underneath, though. Meanwhile my friend hemmed and hawed about still being a week away from turning 21 and getting "caught" sitting at a table in a bar, not drinking, as a relative of the entertainers.

I'm reasonably certain that part of my "wants no parts of this finals business" is related to my "starting to want no parts of my quasi-emotionally-abusive boyfriend" feeling. Something hasn't been sitting right about how everything is always my fault and how "doofus" is allowed to make comments about other girls being pretty in front of me, but I'm supposed to cut off even my oldest, dearest male friends. It couldn't possibly be a toxic relationship...must be the seasonal depression; not that he believes that exists, anyway. I look around the bar, taking in the sticky floor, the smell of beer and cigarettes, the sounds of the Blackthorn-esque Saw Doctors covers. Inhale. Exhale. Relax. You're allowed to go out and have fun. Screw it. And then I hear your voice over the microphone; color me obsessed.

Part 2: Brendan

I wasn't crazy about having to play tonight. It's not my Friday off, I had way too many job sites to visit before I clocked out, and I had to leave West Philly, drive all the way up to the Northeast to go home, then come all the way back to South Philly for the gig; and everyone in the entire city of Philadelphia with a car is a total moron, which, combined with the perpetual construction of I-95, is the absolute worst commute ever. "Join a band", they said..."It'll be fun", they said...and most of the time it is. But the getting there, setting up, and packing up after is a pain in the ass. Especially on workday Fridays. My buddy, Jack, plays bass with us...he doesn't drive, so I pick him up for every gig. Thankfully he lives near my parents. When I picked him up this time, he said his sister and her friend were coming. I couldn't fathom why two college-aged girls would want to come out to a dive bar in South Philly, but it's always nice to have people we know hanging out when we play. Then he elaborated on the friend: "Yeah, dude, she's an Irish dancer!" I couldn't internally facepalm hard enough. I hate when we have to play for dancers. They're always so picky about timing and speed and which trad tunes they want us to play...it's a nightmare. I really hope this chick doesn't try to dance with us; I don't have the patience for it today. But at least there will be free beer.

I feel a lot better now that I've had a couple. Usually when I'm in this neighborhood, I'm at the Mummers' club across the street. But the similarly sticky floors and smell of beer and cigarettes give the bar a comforting feeling; all of the stress of getting here and setting up dripped away with the condensation on my bottle of Coors Lite. Kieran and I banter back and forth over the mic for a minute as we get set to start N-17, when the bar door opens. I know Ryan as soon as I see her, but the girl who comes in with her is new. Long blonde hair, 90s grunge style flannel, it's like she's walking in slow motion up to the bar; color me obsessed. "Hey Jack...who just walked in with your sister?"