The Siren of Seattle strode along the quiet avenue as a faint drizzle fell against her rosy, cheeks. She was glad for the rain—it helped obscure the evidence of her sadness. She had found that walks around the neighborhood helped to lift her mood; there was something healing in the act of moving her body, feeling the cool breeze on her skin, and seeing the smiles of strangers as she passed.

And without fail, each stranger did smile.

The Siren had taken to singing quietly to herself as she ambled along, it settled her, centered her being, and each stranger she passed would meet her eyes—a rarity in the Pacific Northwest—and smile as though her song were the lone shining light under those dreary gray skies.

The Siren couldn’t know whether her singing voice was beautiful—in fact, she would swear that it was not. This was not for a lack of confidence or an above average sense of self-awareness (bless those poor souls on American Idol). No, it was because, as Fate would have it—the cruel, fickle asshole that she is—the Siren of Seattle was deaf.

I say that Fate is cruel not because being deaf is an inherently lesser state of being—your friendly narrator does not hold that belief. No, I say Fate is cruel because I’ve met her many times and I’ve found that among her favorite tools is that of irony, especially when irony is deployed in such a way that it leads to a person’s ability to appreciate and love themself being diminished in some form or fashion. So, yeah, I think Fate is an asshole. But this story, rightly, isn’t about Fate.

As the Siren of Seattle strode along the gray sidewalk, under gray skies, in a gray mood, on a gray afternoon, she sang quietly and her dark mood lightened with each passerby she encountered.

And then she bumped into Oliver.

“Sorry, >!miss! I’m!<so sorry. I’m Oliver. >!I wasn’t watching where I was!< going.!”

“I read lips a bit, but are you able to sign?” She said.

“Yes! I’m sorry for bumping into you,” Oliver signed cheerily with his expressive hands. “I’m Oliver. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sally, and that’s ok. My mind was elsewhere,” she signed in return.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say, but…my god. Your voice. It was so beautiful. I’ve never heard a song so…enthralling.”

“Don’t toy with me, Oliver. It isn’t kind. And I wasn’t singing for you. I sing for me because it makes me happy. You don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t get it. I would never make fun of someone’s singing—even if they couldn’t carry a tune to save their life—but you…Your voice is truly astounding. Your song it—it made me feel like I could get hit by a passing bus, but that’d be ok. It’d be ok because the last thing I’d have heard was your song. Are you an artist?”

Sally the Siren was a good judge of character. She had been made fun of plenty of times before by nasty immature boys and jealous insecure girls; she’d found a way to guard her head and her heart against the cruel attacks of the outside world. But this was different. This Oliver fellow seemed sincere. Could it be that she’d actually had a beautiful voice after all?

Oliver and Sally walked together along the gray street, under the light blue sky, and their moods together were bright. They signed and laughed and learned and—dare I say—loved. The two fledgling lovers drank lattes and walked along the water, the sky had awoken to a deep-dark blue.

And then Oliver fucked up.

Sally, feeling the vibe of the moment—that, let’s face it, we were all picking up on—leaned in and tried to kiss Oliver. He leaned away. Her heart sank and the sky—in true Seattle fashion—threatened to drown their brief day in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he signed. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”

“No, it’s my fault,” she responded. We all know it wasn’t her fault. Oliver was a careless, clueless boy. Another in a long line of immature assholes from which she’d learned to guard her heart.

“No, no. I should have said something earlier. I just wanted to get to know you before I asked you what I wanted to. I think you’re really cool, I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

Her heart now sat at the bottom of Lake Washington. They’re never looking for a relationship.

“What is it that you wanted to ask me then?”

And then Oliver said those fateful Pacific Northwest words. Those words that are always being uttered by at least five or six other dudes in the Seattle area at any given point in time.

“>!Well,!< I’m in a band and >!I’m looking!<for a singer. >!It’s the last thing!< we need before we hit it big. You’re our missing piece, >!I just know it!!<“

He didn’t need to sign that. Sally made out the key parts. She signed that she’d think about it and went on her way.

Sally, the Siren of Seattle, walked slowly back home as the faint drizzle had turned into a torrent. She was thankful for the rain—it helped obscure evidence of her sadness. Fate was, as usual, a wrathful asshole. But Sally, again, sang quietly as she strolled the avenue, and could not help but feel cheered by the smiles she encountered. She remembered what he’d said about her voice. At least she had that. Not everyone was so bad. Maybe there’d be brighter days ahead.

And there were.

Sally the Siren went out solo and was bigger than Nirvana. Who needs a band when you have a voice like hers? She was signed by Sub Pop after an exec saw her bustling on the street corner by Pioneer Square. She had been at it for all of fifteen minutes before she was plucked from obscurity and thrust into stardom.

Perhaps Fate, as beleaguered a being as she is, is less of an asshole than I had previously assumed.

And maybe, just maybe, fate works in ways mortals—or, sure, even immortal narrators—cannot quite understand.

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