Jill Watts

It’s a late summer night in a velvet-draped, low-lit private lounge tucked away in the arts district — the kind of place only those in the know get invited to. The crowd has dwindled to a few lingering souls nursing cocktails and feelings. Jill Watts has just finished her final encore — a stripped-down, goosebump version of “The Way” that left the room in good spirits. She exits the small stage barefoot, golden and glowing with sweat and laughter. While she evades the crowd going to her boudoir, she notices you waiting for the bathroom in the hall: eyes watery, shoulders slumped in a kind of ache only she would notice. She walks toward you — no entourage, no fanfare — just presence.