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THE BUTTERFLY THAT FLUTTERS AWAY

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Track of the day: New York State of Mind - Lea Michele and Melissa Benoist

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Irene remembers.

She remembers the first time she has seen Wendy, or rather heard her. Her voice, a soulful melody of deep colours, a resonance of clarity and beauty that has caught Irene’s attention.

“Who is she?” Irene cannot help but ask Joy, her classmate from Mr. Lewis’s Literature class, now her co-worker, and possibly a friend. Joy is the one who told her about this job.

Joy doesn’t look away from the beer tap when she asks, “Who’s who?” She fills the pint with Budweiser with such ease. Irene still needs getting used to it.

“The one singing right now,” Irene says.

“Oh,” Joy doesn’t look up. She doesn’t need to. There is no one else that sings in this pub but Wendy. “That’s Wendy.”

Wendy. The name repeats itself in Irene’s mind, being rewritten over and over again until it is etched there permanently, unforgotten. “She wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Joy hands the pint over to the old man sitting on the other side of the bar. She smiles at him and it makes one wonder why she works here, at a pub where the carpet always seems moist from the humidity of the cold weather, despite the heating functioning properly. “She only performs on Wednesday nights,” she says finally facing Irene.

Irene hums in acknowledgement. She looks at Wendy now, a figure of grace under the murky lights. She flows with excellence, with precision and charm, full of experience as if she has performed all her life. She handles the piano well, despite its age, and the piano responds to her like it is hers and not something of this place; a place where everything seems like it is fading, aged by time and people.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Joy asks.

Good is an understatement. “She’s great. Beyond great, actually.”

Irene isn’t the only one who thinks so. Everyone who is here, listening to her, is drawn to Wendy’s performance. Not much people frequent this place but tonight there is a crowd. Wendy’s audience.

Joy leans on the counter of the bar. “She gets no pay for this, you know,” she says to Irene. “That’s why the owner lets her come and play. I don’t know why she does it.”

“So like for charity?” Irene jokes.

“Yeah,” Joy laughs, for a short moment. “Something like that.”

“She must be well-off then, to be doing this for free.”

“On the contrary. She has three jobs. Plus this.”

“She’s not a student? She seems like our age.”

Joy straightens herself up and looks at Irene. “I heard she dropped out three months into her course.”

“What was her course?”

“Who knows? She likes to keep to herself.”

Wendy plays the last note. It lingers in the air until the applause drowns it out. She answers back with a smile, subtle but still striking.

She waits until the applause dies down before saying, “This next song is called New York State of Mind.”

Even when she speaks, she sings.

Wendy clears then starts playing. One note after another, then it cascades but exquisitely, like the trickling of diamonds on a marble floor. Each note has depth, embellished with emotion. It hits one’s heart and it seeps through the veins. Wendy’s mouth opens and her voice greets the piano gently, smoothly.

Some folks like to get away for a holiday from the neighbourhood

Hop a flight away of Miami Beach of Hollywood

But I’m taking a greyhound, from the Hudson River line

I’m in the New York State of Mind

Irene finds herself lost in the music, entangled and taken back in time, back when jazz music was prominent. She is drawn in and so is everyone else. A trance of splendour and elegance.

It was so easy livin' day by day

Out of touch with the rhythm and blues

But now I need a little give and take

The New York Times, the Daily News

Irene notices how Wendy closes her eyes when she holds a note. How Wendy’s head bobs and sways as her fingers make contact with the keys of the piano.

It comes down to reality and it's fine with me cause I've let it slide.

I don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside.

I don't have any reasons.

I left them all behind.

I'm in a New York state of mind.

Irene also notices the smile on Wendy’s lips. This time, not as subtle as before…

I'm just taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line.

Wendy is looking now. At Irene.

The smile is for her.

Cause I'm in a…

The piano slows down and soon it is silent. The moment is brief and Irene wonders if it had happened, if Wendy did look at her, smile at her.

Wendy leans into the microphone.

I'm in a New York state of mind.

The applause returns, louder than before. Irene finds herself clapping a second late.

“Well, that is a first,” Joy tells her.

“W-What is?”

“I think you got Wendy’s attention.”

“Huh?”

“I saw her smile at you. She has never smiled that way to anyone before. Not even to me,” Joy says as if she knows she is someone that can catch anyone’s attention so easily.

Irene admits it, though. Joy stands out. She is a pretty girl: milky, white skin; plump, rouge lips; big, black eyes. Her height boasts, standing a lot taller than Irene. Joy can be a model, if she wanted to. But she doesn’t.

“That’s what I thought too, right?” Irene says. “But there’s a lot of people here tonight.”

“It’s the first time she’s performed with you here, though.” There is a cheeky grin plastered on Joy’s lips.

Irene makes a face. A face that cannot hide her flattery.

Joy puts a hand on Irene’s shoulder as she continues, “You shouldn’t get involved with her, anyhow. She seems like trouble to me.”

“It’s not like we’ll ever speak to each other.” Irene looks on, to Wendy’s back as she exits the pub through the kitchen, out the back door. “She doesn’t seem to be the friendly type.”

That is what Irene believed at the time, when she didn’t really care much for Wendy, when the only thing she wanted in life was to become a great author; before she realises that Wendy will be someone special, different from the rest she has ever met in her life. Someone that will be special to her.

And she realises that beliefs can be swayed just like how feelings can be moved. Nothing ever stays constant.

As soon as Wendy has left, her audience soon followed, shifting from their seats, chugging the last of their drinks. The pub is now empty, mostly, save for a few old men who always seem to stick around until closing time.

Irene cleans up after them. She likes to clean up after people’s mess, much like her mother. She doesn’t mind. She doesn’t ask for anything back. She just does it because she wants to. It’s no big deal.

“That’s the last of it,” Joy says, wiping her hands on her black waist apron.

Irene persuades the last customer to leave. He’s fast asleep on the bar counter. Irene taps the guy’s shoulder. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get going.” Irene’s tone is warm and caring, a reflection of the expression on her face.

“That’s not going to work, Irene. You’ve got to be rough on these ones. Here, watch me.” Joy slaps the guy’s shoulder hard. “Hey! Are you not getting up? We’re closing here!”

The big guy barely moves. Joy puts her hands to her waist. She sighs and kicks the chair, just enough to nudge it. “Hey! Wake up!”

He jolts up, nearly falling from his chair, then mumbles something incoherently. He looks around, at the chairs stacked above the table, at Irene, then at Joy, who is pointing at the door. He trudges and sways but manages to leave without falling over.

“See?” Joy tells Irene. “You’re too nice.”

“Will he be alright? Shouldn’t we have called for a taxi?” Irene has a habit of worrying too much for people. Even to those she barely knows.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. He’ll just be staggering when he gets on the bus. Trust me, Irene. There are drunks worse than him.”

Irene laughs. “I’m sure there is.”

“It’s only your third night, newbie. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Alright, alright. Shall we go home then?”

The two of them leave, after bidding their farewells to the owner, not forgetting to fill in their time sheets before they make their way out. The night air is crisp. It is nearing the end of autumn. The trees are bare, their branches exposed. Their silhouette under the glow of the moonlight is beautiful yet unsettling.

Joy says her goodbyes. She lives on the other side of town with her parents so she takes a different bus from Irene’s.

And this is where Irene further remembers.

She further remembers, on that same evening, watching Wendy from a distance, as they both head home.

Irene has gotten on a bus and she sits, two seats from the back of the bus. She puts on her earphones, drowning the noises of the pointless chatter of those around her. It keeps her occupied and helps pass the time.

Two stops since Irene has gotten on, when she sees a familiar face. This new passenger stands out – to Irene at least. Her hair shines, reflecting the sharp fluorescent lights of the bus; a shade of aubergine brown parted to one side, long and sleek that goes past her shoulders. Her clothes – a grey long coat on top of a plain white V-neck shirt and black ripped jeans with black lace-up ankle boots – suit her exceptionally well. She looks good.

Wendy looks good.

Irene finds herself looking down on her phone – an act of pretention – trying to avoid Wendy, in the odds that Wendy does recognise her; that Wendy remembers the person she possibly smiled to two hours ago.

She waits a few seconds, after the bus has started moving again, before carefully looking up. She sees Wendy sitting near the front of the bus. It is easy to find her, despite the bus being almost full.

Wendy is looking out the window, eyes that seem to be lost somewhere deep, unreachable. The melancholy is painted noticeably in her expression and Irene cannot help but wonder: “What are you thinking right now?”

It will be a question that Irene will continuously ask Wendy but will never get an answer for.

Irene presses the stop button and gets ready to get off. She stands up and at the same time Wendy stands up as well, a momentous similarity in an unexpected situation.

It starts.

It is the beginning of multiple parallels between two very different people.

Irene gets off the bus after Wendy and she starts to watch.

She watches Wendy as she gets off the bus and walks in the same route Irene uses to get home. She watches as Wendy enters a convenience store and waits until she comes out of it, carrying a bag of something. She watches as Wendy turns left, into a path that diverges and separates from Irene.

And this is something that Irene always remembers.

That Wendy has a tendency to deviate, to wander, like a butterfly that flutters away into a vast meadow, getting lost. And Irene tries to catch her. Always. But she can never get close enough that she’s only able to watch this butterfly from a distance.

The full moon is bright, daunting. Irene can only watch Wendy from afar as her figure gets smaller, her shadow entangling with the shadows of the branches of the trees stripped by the autumn season.

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A/N: New story. New characters. My aim for this story is for it to touch people's hearts, in a deep way. Therefore, this story is going to be a lot heavier than my other one. Don't worry, it's not going to be angst! I think... 

The song, New York State of Mind, featured in this chapter is originally by Billy Joel but I listen to Lea Michele and Melissa Benoist's cover because I prefer their vocals and they both killed it. I would love to hear some thoughts on the first chapter: what you got from it, what you think the characters would be like, etc. Feedback is the food of a writer! Upvote and subscribe too if you liked reading the first chapter :)