It is important to note, before this story proceeds,that April O'Neil wasn't a person who particularly liked concerts unless you counted the ones she went to with Casey, which were less than stellar; she pretended to like them for his sake. On this particular night, at half past ten, she thought, What the hell? I don't really do much anymore at night than just read and go to sleep. Let me just check out this guy everyone's talking about. The Man, huh. The name is to the point. The tickets were five bucks at the door, a steal. She slipped past the doors and inside.
The crowd was rip-roaring drunk; the smell of hybrid weed in the air was pungent, nearly all-consuming. All of that would have distracted her from the concert, but his onstage presence was intoxicating. He wore a mesh top, tight leather pants that clung to his muscular legs, and platform boots that made him seem taller than he already was. His tan skin glowed in the stage lights, like a halo of sorts. His hair spilled down his back in velvet rivulets. For the past five minutes, he had played nothing but his guitar and rarely sang, but when he did, his voice was like rusted gold. It was intoxicating in a way she couldn't explain.
The show ended as soon as it started; time became something and nothing all at once, it seemed. The lights came up and The Man onstage became a guy; his gray eyes flashed as he slung his arms around a short, chubby girl with the same tanned skin he did. She had dark hair like him, too, except hers was cut in a chin-length bob with bangs. Tattoos climbed up her legs and sheathed her arms. Maybe she was his daughter? Her eyes were big, doe-like, but they swirled with fear; April could tell, even though she wasn't looking at her. She looked down at her hand and realized her ring was gone - - that had been a family heirloom, given to her by her great-grandmother June before she went off to college. No one bothered to help her look - they were either too hammered or didn't care enough; watching a woman crawl around a tiny, old theater on her hands and knees must have been commonplace enough for them to pass her by.
"Here," Came a soft, lilting voice. It wormed its way into April's ringing ears. She struggled to her feet. Behind her stood the girl; in her upturned palms was the ring; the sapphire jewels that were inlaid in the silver band glittered in the moonlight.
"Oh, thank you." April's thanks came out in a single breath. "Where did you find it?"
"Under some lady's stiletto." The girl's pink-glossed lips split into a shy smile. Then she said:
"Don't look into his eyes again. He already thinks your soul is a good candidate."
And then she was gone; April walked the six blocks back to her apartment guided by the invisible, but wholly tangible hands of sleep. When she drifted off into the seas of sleep, she dreamt of the man's eyes and Casey, sitting alone on their couch, head in his hands, surrounded by the turtles; the look of utter defeat on their collective faces was not an unusual sight. A single candle sat on the coffee table.
April woke up with a start. She blinked up at the ceiling; once, twice, three times. She could have sworn she heard chirping. She turned her head, and perched on her bedside table, atop a John Grisham thriller that was half-finished, was a little white dove with a crumb of bread in its beak. The dove fluttered its way over to the half-awake woman, landed on her stomach, and laid the crumb upon her comforter. Instead of scrambling from her cocoon of sheets and shooing it away in a panic, as any normal person would, she reached out her index finger and gently stroked the dove's head. Its pure-white feathers were soft to the touch. She couldn't explain it, but she felt as if she knew it already; like it was an old friend she had forgotten long ago; the memory was lost in swaths of months and years and decades.
"Did you bring me breakfast?" She asked. The animal just stared at her with innocent eyes and let out a soft tweet as if to say yes. April sat up and ignored the ache in her bones. "How nice. Thank you very much." Then she added, "How about I see if we have any nuts or raisins? I think I have some left over. They might be a little stale, though."
The dove didn't seem to care. It floated on the gentle breeze that was being circulated throughout the tiny bedroom with the help of the dying ceiling fan. April followed after it.