Someone to help me deal with Mummy, block out her voice when she whispered in my ear,
telling me I was bad, I was wrong, I wasn’t good enough. Why had I thought that?
He wouldn’t be drawn to a woman like me. He was, objectively, a very attractive man,
and could therefore select from a wide range of potential partners. He would choose an equally attractive woman a few years younger than himself.
Of course he would. I was standing in a basement on a Tuesday night, alone, surrounded by strangers,
listening to music I didn’t like, because I had a crush on a man who didn’t know, and would never know, that I existed.
I realized I had stopped hearing the music. There he was onstage, pressing guitar pedals and saying something trite about touring as he tuned.
Who was this stranger, and why had I chosen him, of all the men in this city, this country, the world, to be my savior?
I thought about a news story I’d read the previous day, some young fans holding a tearful vigil outside a singer’s house because he’d cut his hair.
I’d laughed at the time, but wasn’t I behaving like them, acting like a love-struck teenager
who writes fan letters in purple ink and etches his name on her schoolbag?
I didn’t know the man onstage before me, didn’t know the first thing about him. It was all just fantasy.
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