Of love and other demons- Prologue

Oh, she could tell you of love.

People came from all over to hear her, wrapping the shadows around themselves and nursing their drinks while the spotlight blinked over her voice, husky and calm with the telling of...

Love.

Children, men, women, priests, bikers, salesgirls, hookers, mothers, presidents, chefs and zoo managers came to hear her. And she had stories for each one of them. Each one heard every story differently, and went away with tears or smiles in the purse of their hearts depending on what clothes they were wearing, unpacked from whose luggage.

No one asked her for a name or a number. Many bought her drinks though, which she would awknowledge only with a little nod, nothing more for that would interrupt the telling.

Bar men have cried, as they will tell you. Grown men have walked out singing. One played a guitar and then drove himself off a cliff, but the coroner blamed an overdose of caffeine. No one asked any questions. To hear her speak meant putting your soul on the line, which was a tacit agreement among those who came to listen.

For she told everyone's story, every hope and dream and despair and pain and wove it into the night of her hair that like warm clouds breezed around her head as she spoke, moved my the pedestal fan kept backstage.

No one has ever written her stories down before. Till now.