What are you doing Genevieve Zeitlyn. Genevieve takes a deep breath opening her eyes, her body askew under unfamiliar bedsheets. It’s the morning after the Evan Fields & The Neat Disease show and Evan Fields lies snoring next to her, his long black hippie hair a tangled mess with a beard to match. She sits up amidst a canopy of Tibetan prayer flags. A Pete Seeger poster is perched just above the commode and a pair of antlers loom over the headboard. A light haze of smokey jasmine fills her nostrils. The night wasn’t supposed to end like this.
Yesterday evening Genevieve made it to Lincoln Hall just as the band started playing. This place is packed! They’re a bigger deal than I thought. She grabs a whiskey sour before navigating her way through the crowd to the front of the stage. She sees Evan standing front and center howling at the moon strumming his acoustic furiously. The motor in her left eye whirs as it scans the rest of the band members. Her friend Omar sits on the drums bashing away at the kit singing harmonies. Grace the guitarist plays on a vintage jaguar flicking her fingers with wild abandon and Stephen the bassist bobs up and down lost in his own universe. Wow. I’m impressed. She felt a chill go down her spine. I want to be up there someday.
You need to go home, now. Genevieve can feel her hands getting heavy, about twelve hours since their last charge. Okay, there’s my purse, and my skirt. As she steps out of bed to gather her things she turns to see Evan grabbing her arm.
“Leaving already?” Evan smiles lazily, yawning.
Oh, there they go. Genevieve sees her hands go limp. She plops back on the bed. “Sorry it’s just these,” she holds up her arms, palms sagging. Might as well get it over with…
“Far out. I thought there was something different about you.” Evan’s eyebrows raise as he scoots closer to her. His warm fingers trace the seams between her flesh and her fake flesh, her tattoos unable to hide the true nature of her hands when touched. He looks into her eyes saying, “Too cool. You know, Mournful Ears? Uh, Jared Smith-”
Genevieve nods. Of course I know him. Mournful Ears was the main project of an emo folksinger out of New Mexico. His last few records got into the nines on Pitchfork. They were really that good.
“He’s nearly all robot. He plays a lot more technical now, you know. I saw it with my own eyes at a benefit last year.”
“You’re lying,” Genevieve playfully turns away from Evan.
“It’s true!” Evan hops up with a surprising amount of energy bringing her real close. “I think it’s cool, living in this age, people able to be do what they love no matter their circumstance. We carve our own destinies from the cosmic tree. What was it then? Natural? Accident?”
Evan tries to go in for another kiss, but Genevieve pulls away chuckling.
“No, no, you don’t get to know that easy. Not yet.” She hooks her limbs around his neck and kisses him real slow.
“I think you should open for us, the band, the next show here, at the end of the summer. Omar played me your demo. I think it’s great.” Evan lies back down on the bed arms outstretched.
Oh, Omar. I really need to thank him. I hope it’s not too awkward. Genevieve studies Evan’s face seeing the handsome guy underneath this scraggly hippie demeanor. “You’re serious, right?”
“Deathly serious.” Evan winks at her. “Your uh, hands, are fine though right?”
“Shut up.” She grins lying back down with him. “I’m in, but first, could you generate some static electricity for me. That’ll at least give these mitts a boost so I can make the train home.”