The flag of piracy flew from my mast, my sails were set wing to wing. I had a jukebox graduate for first mate, she couldn’t sail but she sure could sing.

Billy sang like an angel and played guitar like Eric Clapton. He sat on a stool in the back of the Starbucks as I lost myself in his blues. I was wondering if he recognized me, until we made eye contact during a song about going home. He winked. I melted.

A few weeks ago, his music was crawling through the labrynth of Downtown Crossing as I switched trains on my morning commute. He sang about loss and heartbreak to the flocks of suited, earbudded businessmen rushing by his open guitar case. I was entranced, but the train doors shut between us.

He was there the next day too, and the day after. I found myself hoping that the trains were few and far between, so I could maybe manage to catch a whole song while waiting on the platform. After three days, he stopped showing up. I guessed he had found a better station to play in. And then, just yesterday, I was standing with a half-dozen people as the train approached and he was waiting right next to me.

“I’ve seen you here before,” I said. “You’re fantastic.”

It took him a second to realize I was talking to him. “Oh, thank you,” he smiled. He had an accent. British?

“Do you have a website or anything?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ll see if I have my card on me…” Australian. At this point the passengers were funnelling onto the train, and he was fumbling with his guitar case and other bags as we stepped inside. “I’m actually getting off at State, so it’s just one stop… ” He pulled a pen out of his pocket and grabbed my hand. “Here’s my email.” The train rolled to a stop at State. The doors opened and a crowd of people surged him off the train.

And here I was, swooning in Starbucks. After his set, a pink-haired girl walked up to chat with him. I sat in my seat with my latte, not sure what to do. She took the stool and he sat on the floor next to her, playing his guitar. She had a pretty voice, but not as soulful as his. They only did one song together, and the next act went on.

They approached my table, and he introduced us. Her name was Willa, and she was only about five feet tall and very skinny, with a wild mess of faded pink dreadlocks. He invited me back to their friend’s party. I told them I was sorry, but I had a lot of homework. I pictured myself sitting on a shag carpet in a smoke-filled apartment with a dozen hip musicians, in my business casual clothing that I was still wearing from my internship. I gathered my things.

“You sure? It’ll just be a few of us,” Willa said. “It’ll be chill.”

Her friendliness surprised me, and Billy took advantage of my hesitation. “Just for a little while,” he said. “She lives right near here.”

“Well,” I said, “Okay.” I tossed my half-finished latte, and I followed them out the door.

Take a right at the light, keep going straight until night, and then boy, you’re on your own.

I jumped out of June’s car and ran across the train station parking lot.  I looked behind me, and saw her slowly skipping through the darkness.  I slowed down, but I couldn’t wait, and I ran to the tree. I touched the damp bark with my palms.  By putting my foot on a low knot, I was easily able to swing myself up to the first branch. I sat there and looked around for June.  She was lying in the parking lot like an oil stain, waving her limbs into invisible snow angels.

“Junebug!” I whispered. “JUNE!” She peeled herself off the pavement and ran, stumbling and swerving along the way. I shouldn’t have let her drive. She hugged the tree, smothering her body into its trunk.  She bit off a piece of bark, and then jumped up to sit beside me.

I looked at the moon as June chewed on her bark. I had to make a conscious effort to release my facial muscles from a wide smile. My head started spinning and I forgot I was only five feet off the ground. I felt like I could reach up through the leaves and collect the stars with both hands. I told June, and she spit out her bark and we talked about life and the universe and how small we are.

Someone was playing “Layla” in the distance.  June nudged me and pointed to my pocket. I snapped back to reality and remembered that “Layla” was my cell phone ring. I looked at the phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I’m sorry, I- “

“Do you have any idea how it feels for me to wake up at 3:30 AM and find your bed empty?”

“I just forgot to call you.  I’m sleeping over at June’s.  I’m really sorry for worrying you, Mom. Go back to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

There was silence. I looked at my phone.  She had hung up.

“I guess we should go back to your place,” I said to June.

“Mmm,” she responded, and jumped off the branch. “All I want to do is dance in the moonlight,” and she began to sway. Then we were cartwheeling around the parking lot, celebrating and dancing, until I fell mid-cartwheel on the pavement. My elbow was stinging, and when I touched it, it was wet with blood. After the injury, we decided to just lay on the grass and recover.

When we woke up, it was hazy, but very bright. I had to squint to get my bearings. There were two more cars next to June’s, and a man in a business suit was walking across the lot. Our clothes were drizzled with dew. June pulled a leaf out of my hair and we giggled. We walked back to her car and I thought about calling my mom and apologizing again for worrying her. But she really had nothing to worry about. I was having fun, and I was safe, and next time I would remember to call her before 3:30 AM. What more could she ask for?

We sat in the car with broad smiles on our faces, still energized from the night. My elbow only stung a little. “Want coffee?” June asked.

“Sure,” I said, and we drove to Starbucks.