Scar Tissue

I sit at the end of the bar, waiting for my turn to sing. A bottle of Guinness sweats on the wood surface in front of me. It's mostly for show, ordered out of some sense of duty to the dark-haired girl behind the bar who always remembers my name.

A guy sits next to me. Clean cut. Blond. Nice looking. A little short. He orders a drink. I don't pay attention to what. He says something about the weather. I don't realize he's talking to me until he gestures toward the song book sitting next to my beer and asks if I'm singing. I nod. What song? "Son of a Preacher Man."

He's from out of town. He travels a lot, has sung karaoke in nearly every state. He likes country. Why is he talking to me? I should be social. I smile. I ask questions -- too many questions. I'm interviewing him about his job and cringing inside as some voice in my brain tells me he doesn't want to talk about this and why don't I ask him something else, but I can't think of anything else because work is all I know and I don't like country music.

The DJ calls my name. It's my turn to sing. The voice that explodes from my throat doesn't belong to me. It belongs to someone attractive, talented, confident. Not to me. I'm only borrowing it for three minutes. As this borrowed voice rises to the song's climax, the DJ flashes the lights. Some futile attempt to make me feel like a rock star.

The song ends and I walk back to my bar stool perch. The guy is still there. He smiles and nods. I try to think of something friendly to say, but my mind is blank. I don't look at him. We sit in silence while one of the regulars screeches an excruciatingly off-pitch version of "Turn the Page." The guy finishes his drink. Nice to meet you. And he leaves. I don't know what he wanted anyway. I lift the Guinness to my lips and take a slow sip. It's bitter.

The rotation is heavy tonight. It'll be awhile before it's my turn again. "99 Red Balloons." I flip through the song book, studying it like there could still be some surprise in its pages, some long-forgotten favorite my borrowed voice could polish and make shine.

Another regular who just may fancy herself Patsy Cline reincarnated begins her standard rendition of "Crazy." She's a good singer.

I feel conspicuous sitting at the end of the bar alone. I hop down from the bar stool and slink past her to the women's bathroom, just for a change of scenery. Inside is another regular. She's young. 23 or 24. I'm a million years old. We've chatted a few times about vampire movies and TV shows. She hugged me once just because I knew what "Spuffy" meant.

She's standing at the chalkboard hanging next to the sink. She's sketching a heart and drawing jagged lines through it. Then more lines. Short, strong parallel lines through the jagged ones.

Broken heart?

Stitched up heart, she says. It was broken, but now it's stitched. It'll heal, but it'll be weaker where it was broken and it'll be afraid of being broken again.

She drops the chalk on the ledge and walks out.

And I wonder -- how many times can a heart be stitched before there's nothing left but scar tissue?