Angie

I often go down to The Gem. A bar in Collingwood, it's tucked away on Wellington street, away from the more popular joints, The Tote, The Rochester, The Birmingham.
It's decor is ridiculous and charming. Elvis adorns the walls in various forms; a rug, a framed copy of TV week, a watermarked mirror, a photograph from is 1968 comeback tour.

The same band has played Sunday nights for the last 4 months. Small groups of dedicated followers of the simple, rockabilly band come almost every week. As one a part of one of those groups, I have slowly met a few of the other devotees, recognising them and saying hollow the weeks that I go.
Angie was relatively new to the weekly ritual. I'd only seen her since January or so. Tonight I sat beside her at the bar. She'd already met another friend of mine - Ezbon, who was a much more dedicated attendee than myself. Ezbon had been the impetus to myself and many of our friends attending in the first place.

In her early fifties at a guess, and very well kept and well dressed, Angie leaned over and ask,
"I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."
That broke the ice, and as she tapped her foot along to the music, we passed banter about the evening back and forth.

One moment struck me, was when she looked over after a quip from the Double-bassist about Mother's day.
She laughed. "He's been going on about mother's day all weekend! I'm not a mother! I was almost once. My son would have been thirty-nine if he has lived."
Then she just went back to dancing in her seat, cat-calling the lead guitarist.
Amazing.