Amelia
This was my life. I stood looking out over the ballroom. Women in elegant black gowns flitted back and forth between the bar and their dapper looking beaus in fitted tuxedos. And there I stood. Next to a stage. In a floor length black dress. Looking out over everything that screamed "YO IM FREAKING RICH" knowing that all I had at home was some top ramen and maybe a tablespoon of milk.
"Amy! We go up in 5!" A familiar voice called from behind me. It was Jess, one of our solo-ists. I rolled my eyes. We have known each other for a few years now but she still called me that.
"Its Amelia, Jess." I mutter before turning and walking over to the small alcove by the men's bathroom to assemble my saxophone. Ah. The glamorous life of a musician. I shuffle back to the stage filled with horrible posture chairs and music stands from the middle ages, clipping my neck strap to the sax as I sit down. Placing my music on the stand, I gaze back out at the ballroom. These people had no idea that I've spent countless hours rehearsing these songs, that if I play perfectly, no one will notice. The second I mess up though, the whole room would be talking. I spend hours of my life preparing for this two or three hour stretch, knowing that at the end of the night, no one will even remember that there was a live band.
"Amy, your music," Jess points out as the music stand flops forward, sending my music in a cascade to the floor. I adjust the stand and place my music back on it with a heavy sigh.
We play our hour long set, and it goes well.
"15 minutes," Our manager tells us. Thank the merciful heavens. My lips are burning, and cork grease only works as chapstick to a certain degree. Leaving my saxophone on my chair and taking off my neck strap, I rush over to the alcove to get the chapstick from my case. As I near the alcove, the door to the men's bathroom is suddenly flung open and I am abruptly thrown into a sturdy chest with an "oomph"
"I am so sorry!" I look up to see an incredibly handsome man in an expensive suit looking at me in friendly concern. Oh. Crap. I smile up at him while stealthily putting the hand holding my neck strap behind my back.
"No it was my fault," I laugh slightly while rubbing my forehead with my free hand. I was certain I had an imprint of his jacket buttons on my forehead.
"Are you alright?" There was a slight laugh in his voice, and of course my natural dry sarcasm decided to reply for me.
"No I think I might die," Wow. I would slap me if I were him. But maybe he is a gentleman? Another laugh escaped him and he put a hand on the bridge of his nose. It was then that I noticed the Bluetooth headset in his left ear. Greeeaaaat. The tale tell sign of a rich business man.
"I'm Matthew, and just so you know I don't make a habit of running into women," He held out his hand for me to shake. Wow. Formal. I look back up at his face, taking in his honest green eyes and voluminous dark hair. Hmm..Stylish.
"Amelia. And you should know I don't make a habit of running into men,"shaking his head firmly I Again hear dry sarcasm in my voice. I really need to work on that. But he laughs again. Either he is extremely polite or he actually understands my humor. He looks as though he is about to say something, when his phone rings. He visibly cringes then looks at me in apology.
"I am so sorry, this will only take one second," He walks around the corner, further down the hall to keep his conversation private. I look at the clock, realizing I only have five minutes till im back on stage. Crap. I hurry and retrieve my chapstick in hopes that Matthew wouldn't realize im one of the musicians and I book it back to the stage. These rich guys treat you like the plague once they learn you are a musician. If the event hadn't been a black and white dress event, I would have been painfully obvious in my black attire. As it was though, I figured he would never look on stage at a Tenor player in search of a girl he met.
"Yeah cause he would look for you even if you weren't a musician Amelia. BE realistic," I scold myself as I sit back in the uncomfortable posture chair.
"Lets play the third set. The second is what we will end with. And after we are done, our client is paying each of you personally so stay for a bit unless you don't want to get paid," Our manager says. Oh. I'm staying. Being a party musician doesn't exactly pay the bills AND buy the food.
Just before we start, I catch Matthew walking out of the hallway out of the corner of my eye. I shift in my seat, seemingly absorbed with my music. I am a musician. And there is no way he is looking for me. He probably won't even remember my name.