Holding onto your breath, like a mother holds her newborn babe, waiting for that person to walk in. Getting there early, staking out a seat, saying you were in the neighborhood. Keeping your phone in your pocket, but your front pocket, so you can feel it vibrate. Looking around without looking around, the craft you've been perfecting. Sitting like you go there all the time, like you know these bands, these people, this music. Wearing clothes that say "cool," say "I don't care," say "I just threw it on," say "this old thing?". Watching all the other people filing in, one by one, two by two, group by group, fan by fan. Listening to the sound checks, seeing the first band take the stage, tolerating the noise. Feeling the thumping in your chest, something between a bass and a heart. Wondering what could be taking her so long. Keeping an eye on the door. Ignoring every act. Realizing she is not coming. Thinking yourself a fool. Going home. Falling asleep. Leaving it alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment