The first time they meet, they’re performing at the same venue. Lisbeth has just barely managed to get a gig at a relatively clean bar in town and is making the most of it by throwing up in their private bathroom when she hears the other girl’s voice for the first time.
“It’s not ‘in underground’,” the voice says. It’s loud—and rude, Lisbeth thinks, pausing between vomits; the kind that comes out when you’re too upset to pay attention to how you sound. “It’s just ‘underground.’”
The person who showed Lisbeth around—Lisbeth has forgotten their name; Lisbeth has forgotten all of their names, which is the first thing people tell you not to do, you’re supposed to remember everyone’s names, it leaves a good impression—said the best part of the green room was the bathroom, and when Lisbeth asked why, they said she was not going to ask that after having used it once. You don’t go back to the public bathroom after using the private one, they said. They said it like Lisbeth would not be expected to use the public one again, regardless of whether she came back to play another set, which seemed in line with the general state of the place. Lisbeth could have snuck into the green room by acting confident and flashing a Pressed Juicery punch card.
“No—no, it’s definitely tonight—”
It occurs to Lisbeth as she leans against the toilet that whoever is on the venue’s side is speaking at an appropriate...