You wouldn’t think that following a guy in suspenders into an unmarked building at 10:30 PM on a Thursday would lead to personal growth, would you? But hi, I’m Rachel Green, and that’s where our story begins.
It All Started with a Cute Outfit and No Plans
Let me set the scene: I’m in Harlem, wearing this amazing vintage Pucci blouse I thrifted (yes, thrifted—I’m growing!!), feeling very Insecure-meets-Sex and the City, and on my way to meet a friend who, spoiler alert, totally bailed. But I wasn't ready to go home. My blowout looked phenomenal, and there’s something about warm summer nights in New York that makes me bold.
Then—I see him. A man. In suspenders. Not in a creepy way—in a “he owns vinyl records but respects women” way. He darts into a door with a saxophone painted on it. Curious (and okay, a little flirty), I follow.
Welcome to the Vibe
The building opens up into the coziest, most magnetic underground jazz club I have ever seen. Dim lighting, velvet couches, the gentle scent of whiskey and lavender. It’s called “Blue Honey.” (Side note: if that’s not the name of an expensive candle or my next dog, I don’t know what is.)
No one's checking names. No menus. No phones out. Just music and people who look like they feel deeply. Everything is, like, effortlessly cool. I could feel my bank account getting nervous.
A woman with seafoam green eyeliner and a voice like melted chocolate walks up to me and says, “You must be Rachel.”
Okay. What?
Apparently, I’m the Muse Now
Turns out, someone mistook me for the Rachel who’s been modeling for the club’s event fliers. She's a poetry student at NYU. I should’ve corrected them. But instead, what did I do?
I nodded because, you guys—this version of me sounded amazing.
“I’ve been dying to meet you,” she said. “The new piece is inspired by your aura.”
My aura??
I’m suddenly seated front row. There is literal live poetry happening around me. A man reads a piece called “Coffee on West 116th” and says it’s about a dream he had. About me. Or, "Rachel," anyway.
So I Clapped — Enthusiastically — and Stayed for Another Round
Because here’s the thing: I felt seen. Not Rachel from Bloomingdale’s, not Ross’s ex, not “why is she late again” Rachel. But this fictional, artsy, mysteriously soulful woman everyone thought I was? I kind of wanted to be her.
There’s something about Harlem—something raw and unapologetic. It makes you want to write your own monologue (which I might have done in the Notes app on the subway later, not important).
And the jazz? Oh my God. It’s like your emotions threw on a beret and learned improv. I couldn’t stop swaying. I wanted to order something neat and speak in metaphors.
Also, the bartender’s name was Cliff and he made a cocktail called “Melancholy Spritz,” which might be made with vermouth and pure longing. Still unclear.
What I Learned (Beside That Vermouth is Not for Me)
- New York is endless. Just when you think you’ve seen its sides—bam, saxophone jazz-vibes and mistaken identity poetry circles greet you.
- You can be someone new for a night and still wake up feeling more like yourself.
- Always say yes to a second round (of jazz, not necessarily vermouth).
Next Time, I Might Bring Monica
She won’t pretend to be someone else, but she will take amazing photos. Plus, I need someone to validate that the man playing trumpet winked at me and not the bartender.
Until then, I guess I’m Blue Honey’s honorary muse. Or at least, their favorite accidental participant.
And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for any overpriced downtown rooftop.
—Rachel 💋
“Your aura walked out before you did. Pretty rude of her. I liked it.”
— a man named Julius, probably a Virgo
