the strand of hair that flopped over his eyes. His hands on the guitar, fingernails carefully manicured.
The lights were bright on him, and I was in darkness. But he would see me, nonetheless.
If it was meant to be, and surely it was, then he would see me, the way I’d seen him, all those weeks ago.
I stood still and looked up at him. The band started to play and he opened his mouth to sing.
I could see his teeth, the soft pinkness of his palate. The song finished, and another began.
He spoke to the crowd but he did not speak to me. I stood and waited, waited throughout another song. And another.
But still he didn’t see me. And gradually, as I stood there under the lights,
the music beating off my body without getting in and the crowd unable to permeate the layer of aloneness
that encased me, encases me, I began to realize the truth.
I blinked, again and again, as though my eyes were trying to clear the view before them, and it crystallized.
I was a thirty-year-old woman with a juvenile crush on a man whom I didn’t know, and would never know.
I had convinced myself that he was the one, that he would help to make me normal, fix the things that were wrong with my life.
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