Who's the Blonde Stranger (on Broadway)?
Copyright© 2025 by MarkStory
Epilogue: Thursday Night
Nashville, 10:22 PM
The crowd at Ole Red is loose tonight, everyone carrying the same glow of people who already know what they came for. The lights drop to a deep blue and someone a few rows up waves a plastic margarita cup like a lighter.
I’m here alone, but it doesn’t feel lonely -- just quieter. The air hums with the warmth of steel guitar and applause that rolls like a tide.
When the opening notes of “Come Monday” begin, the place hushes. A ripple moves through the audience -- that collective breath of recognition, the small gasp that says, oh, this one.
The singer from “Boat Drinkers” doesn’t change a thing about the arrangement; it doesn’t need it. The steel guitar sighs, and the lyrics land like truth you’ve known all along.
Something catches in my throat. Without thinking, I pull out my phone and start recording, just a few seconds -- the line I want, the music rising around it, the glow of phones lighting up like quiet constellations across the floor.
“I can’t help it honey ... you’re that much a part of me now...”
When it ends, I send it to her, wondering if I’m overreaching.
A few seconds later, the screen shows “Delivered,” and that’s all. No dots, no reply, just the quiet acknowledgment of something both of us already understand.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
On stage, the band finishes and lets the last chord ring until it fades into silence. The audience exhales together, then cheers, loud and grateful.
I clap too, boots tapping on the wooden floor, and think about the way she smiled yesterday morning -- tired, tender, a little uncertain, somehow both happy and sad at the same time.
The next song starts, something upbeat, but I’m still hearing “Come Monday” in my head, looping quietly beneath everything else.
And for the first time all week, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for anything. I’m just here -- where the music is, where it all started.
Somewhere Else, 11:29 PM