gunpowder, gelatin

Or maybe he just forgot how you liked it. God knows you've been apart long enough for him to forget all your little idiosyncrasies, like that he should get another bar of soap before taking his first shower in a new hotel room as you didn't like sharing them – at least with him, your shadow seemed to tease – and that he should never, ever, touch the thermostat, especially early in the morning, since he had the annoying habit of going for a run before starting the day. Or that he shouldn't sing in the shower before you got out of bed to avoid waking you up.

There was also a new rule you'd like to impose: no singing his fucking songs in your bedroom. Like Josh was doing. As if it hasn't been hard enough to watch him at the last goddamn concert, stupid fucking high notes and all, incomprehensibly coming out of a throat so sore from all the smoke that has been surrounding him with increased frequency these last few days as he seemed to be using it to escape your eyes, to the point of even her complaining in public. Your chest ached. Best not to go there.

It's been three days, two cities since you were dropped, deported back into your previous room and life before the big mistake of stranding away from it. One show, spiteful, disgusting, where you sent Josh to the drum riser and gave him a death look when he opened his mouth to dare comment on it. You felt bad for him, of course; all in all, he probably had about 15 days of working with you where you weren't actively in a fling with him, breaking his heart in another fling with – sigh – or acting like a rottweiler while attached to no one. God knows you were grateful that he's your only team member in this project; this asinine behavior made you cringe at yourself. You weren't as much of a teenager when you were actually in your teens.

You licked your lower lip, trying to soothe it after accidentally biting it out of cold, and the metallic tinge of blood reached your tongue and mind, reminding you of someone else's blood in your lips not long ago – enough. Still shaking, now perhaps more of anger than cold, you threw yourself back to bed, skin flaking off in contact with the sheets. Of course, you were sunburnt to a crisp, nose red and swollen and peeling off, while someone else had the gall of walking around with golden arms wrapped around them – your eyes twitched. Enough. Or you were going home in a straitjacket.

Which, honestly, seemed like a better option than the last 72h of this job, and one that a side of you that you despised seemed almost inclined to. Better the quiet contention of a straitjacket than, per se, to quote a random example, the pitiful looks you've received from nicer crewmembers, or the quizzical, comical looks from the more gossip-inclined ones. Better than the awkward interview just the second night, first show after you came back from your cursed break, where you made the vaguest questions you could pull out of your hazed brain just so you wouldn't lose your hard-won timeslot before every show, footage you knew you had to scrap as it was so inappropriate, inane, three pairs of eyes in distant pity of you, the fourth one unable to look up and face either you or your camera.

Surely nothing could be more humiliating than that, you thought then, perhaps in your whole career; but the universe tested your limits just a couple minutes later, when a fellow roadie was taking backstage pics for their amusement and she was pictured, his fucking golden arm wrapped around her shoulders as usual, and she asked for a picture of just the two of them, but decided that she wanted a more professional eye to make sure she was framed properly, of course, so she'd looked around and found your eyes behind lenses, quietly listening to the exchange as you cleaned an inexistent speck of dust from the viewfinder, and asked if you could take the picture of them.

Bless him, the roadie did try to protect you, for whatever reason – maybe you were nice enough with the crew and there weren't enough women around; maybe he felt bad for accidentally creating a scenario so evil that only the devil himself could produce – and said he didn't like it when other people used his camera, but oh, she insisted with such an elegant, feminine, condescending tone, he just found himself pushing you the camera with an apologizing look on his face. You took the camera and framed them, a face you could only stare at if mediated through a viewfinder, now, and took a shot almost in an out of body experience, rolling the film inside to prepare the camera for the next shot with such dissociation that you almost asked yourself where that sound came from.

She thanked you, a muted presence beside her, and you nodded and went back to your camera, shoulders screaming in pain as the weight pressed the chapped skin, still hurting and bright red. As you watched the peeled off skin fall to the ground while showering, you were displeased to see that the only place in your body that the sun didn't touch was a long line splitting your torso in half, a white line that was previously marked in rusty blood, and an abstract circle that rested below your navel. The very sight of that – and the moment it inevitably reminded you of – made it painful to undress, embarrassed to see proof that those moments existed. Much less to even consider undressing in front of anyone else, at least until that thing disappeared.

And though sometimes waves of anger seemed to wash over you, making your stomach churn while you ate catered lunch with the crew and smoked outside just before the show in the middle of trailers – hearing the sounds of skin and spit of the not-so discreet couples that still populated the shadows – anger that could, of course, blow up a certain drummer and cancel that night's show, the anger seemed more pointed at you, at a stupidity some could call innocence that dared you to move your feelings from that same parking lot to beautiful hotel rooms and dazzling desert architectural jewels. You thought you were above the lamest of narcissisms – the narcissism of exceptionality – but you now knew you just hadn't been tempted enough yet. 

But God, it was still a lot of anger directed to him. To his cynicism. To how he dared to discard you as soon as he got the answer if he could break you with his relentless charm: he could. Goodbye now. He knew he could turn you into a fool, pet names and forgotten limits and misused machinery and now that he knew the answer, there was nothing else but to go back to his golden life, golden rooms, golden girl. It was hard to hate her, though; you were self-conscious enough to feel a guilt reflux almost as thick as bile every time she directed her words at you, which, thank God, was almost never. Someone had to be conscious, you thought, of the things that were done against the dignity of that girl. Or maybe you just liked another reason to torture yourself. God knows you already had plenty.

Seemed like your useless begging to the skies above while outside his stupid room, although yielding no desired results, did make you pious, as you never said “God” as many times before in your life. Second to the straitjacket, you were risking leaving this tour a nun. A naughty one at that, but well, no stupid rockstars in a convent. Might be worth a try. Every religious man finds faith in a crisis, right? There, right in the midst of one, you were. But you still had a job to be done. So, accepting that there would be no more sleep for you, belting assistant in the bathroom and all, you swallowed an aspirin, threw together the loosest fitting clothes you could find – and still managed to rip off some more of your sunburnt skin – and put your glasses on. Sadly, the ones he gave you. If he could be the Green Knight while you were tripping, you thought, at least you could make use of the axe he gave you.

You went down to the lobby to get breakfast with the rest of the crew – both commiserating and relieved that you weren't stuck with room service and show reviews – and found, again, comfort in covering your bloodshot eyes. Were they recovering from dehydration? Was it hatefulness spilling out of your heart through the easier way in and out of it? Were you trying to expel someone else's blood from yours? Ockham's razor would say it's all the silent weeping every night before finally falling asleep. But you knew the value of whimsical answers for hard questions. There were times you tried to catalogue what and where you felt. Anger in your stomach. The ice-cold blade of betrayal where there used to be butterflies. Sharp hate in your throat, claws scratching the cage bars, begging like a wild animal to be let out.

And other, more embarrassing emotions. Shame on your cheeks. Despair in your terminally wide eyes. Grief, so much grief, like lead on your bloodstreams, cutting oxygenation in your fingers and toes, hands and feet, arms and legs, until eventually you'd be stuck, immovable, like a dead tree, molding and rotting on its feet. Regret filling everywhere else. And, shunned into the small of your back, a little voice that wanted to beg, beg him to keep his unsaid promise, to stay with you and only you, to continue being a part of your life that changed the perspective about everything, a gravitational shift where you now knew exactly what it felt like for the Moon to orbit the Earth. And how it felt to be salted earth, barren land, destroyed by an ever-hungry conqueror.

The elevator pinged as it reached its destination and took you out of your misery. You were so glad to have left the previous hotel, the most cursed hotel in this godforsaken land, though the same ghosts haunted this one; at least it wasn't here that the murder occurred. You did have to carry the murder weapon of your bags here, too. You would never forget the feeling of arriving numb to Josh's hotel room as he checked a new batch of workprints, the known chemical smell being the only thing that kept you grounded, and his shocked, almost amused, face at your arrival. You said nothing, letting him empty your bed – haunted with equipment since you left – as the bellboy passed him your luggage. Your shaking hands looked for something to do and soon you found a water bottle in your hand, drinking it while leaning against the wall, unsure if you'd say anything to your assistant, to the bellboy, to yourself.

But the chemical smell hit you once again when you breathed in. Get up, it seemed to say. Stand up straight. There's work to do. Throw yourself at it. So you did, manicuring a casual smile on your face and asking Josh about the workprints he was reviewing, immediately turning your brain off when you recognized the face framed in your footage. You nodded and said you'd have concrete plans to share later that night; it was still his break, he should enjoy it. He took it as his cue to leave the charged interaction and room, and was soon on his way. In cutting silence, you opened your luggage with a disgust that made you think of the birds and the noodles, in that other worldly backyard, something inexplicably gory.

Shaking hands, you touched the cool metal zipper that burned your fingertips. Embracing the feeling, you held it between your fingers and pulled it to the side, the noise unsettling as your clothes spilled out, messy, crumpled, thrown together in a desperate hurry. You remembered your patient hands folding these pieces and splitting them between your luggage and – sigh. He had someone go through your stuff and sever you from him, your underwear strewn around, and you started shaking violently, finding yourself sobbing after having to pause and recognize the whimper that left your throat. You brought to your nose a piece that you hadn't worn for weeks, a Raglan shirt that became his second skin, and you breathed in the scent of honey and sun and – bile crawled up your throat.

Running to the bathroom, prepared to puke, you saw how ridiculous you looked in the mirror, face red and already peeling at the forehead, glossy scarlet eyes as if you were about to cry blood. You washed your face in an attempt to steady your hands. Patting your cheeks with a towel, you left the bathroom and grabbed his – yours – glasses, pushing them to cover your face on your way to the telephone. You asked for an emergency laundry service; you desperately needed to wash off his smell from your clothes.

You felt like a cow, ruminating on your already digested memories in the most miserable editing suite in the world: the mind of the left behind. Back to the present, you walked with slow, steady steps to the buffet restaurant and mindlessly piled some food on your plate, finding a table up in an elevated nook that overlooked the restaurant. Two shiny blonde heads caught your eye while sharing a booth in the middle of the room. Crap. Since when was he out of bedroom arrest this early in the morning? His round brown glasses found your ink-black ones, and both looked down. You were relatively determined to take your plate back upstairs, but ultimately decided not to; although you were involved in some wrongdoings, you were not the one supposed to carry the guiltiest conscience in the room. Plus, other crewmates were out for breakfast and, although sleepy and hungover, you didn't want to risk them noticing you running away from the golden couple like a criminal on the run.

You pushed the food into your mouth, barely tasting what was surely a random combination of breakfast food; trying to distract yourself from the booth – which would be a feat; your aching chest tightened as you noticed the rest of the hotel guests also paid attention to what was an abnormally beautiful couple – you looked down at your plate and took notice of your selection. Toast, cheese, ham, and pineapple. Like a kid learning to count, you felt your conscious mind catch up to the designs of your subconscious one and realize you prepared a make-believe pineapple pizza. Mouth pointed downwards, you pushed what you already ate down with some black coffee, any appetite left vanishing into thin air.

That's when you noticed a lean figure walking decisively towards you. Stupidly tight pants, button-down with the only two middle buttons closed, a swagger that made you want to punch a hole through the table; it was both thrilling and terrifying to have his body closer and closer to yours. A knot in your throat, you watched as he was within reach and suddenly gone again, passing just beside you to the point where you could still sense the traces of smoke and amber that his presence left behind. It felt intentional. You looked back and analyzed your surroundings: there was an exit to the lobby way closer to his booth. Was he trying to mess with you?

The glass vase in front of you reflected a puzzled look on your peeling face. Was it possible that he wanted you to go after him? A shiver ran up your spine. No. Yes yes yes yes, the spineless, suffocated voice on the small of your back cheered, and you shook your head to clear your mind. Whatever he wanted with you – to talk or worse, you told yourself, clenching your fists and thighs – was again stolen moments, stolen time, meetings hidden in shadows and smoke. You were sick of it. He dragged his ass down to breakfast with commoners early in the morning with her, but you were stuck with broom closet fights, pineapple still rolling around your sensitive stomach? Enough.

So you waited. Looking at your wristwatch, you watched as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed without his reappearance. Once the clock marked 20min, you wondered if you should, just out of curiosity, see if he was really out there, waiting for you to go after him, and in your bones would sing in touch with his as soon as he grabbed your arm as he did many times before pulling you into a dark corner, full lips in a smirk touched by moonlight… That's it. You cannot go. You have nothing to say, and there's nothing he could say that could make you hate him less.

Once your coffee was cold in your hands and you could hear a feminine puff of impatience echoing around the emptying breakfast room, you heard his steps approaching and his hip grazed, accusatory, against your chair, before faster steps took him back to the impatient Venus waiting for him. “What took you so long?” you heard her inquire, a tinge of pity mixed with spite taking over your tastebuds. “Just… needed to have a smoke,” he lied, proficiently. “Couldn't you have smoked before breakfast, before dragging me here so early?” she barked, and he sighed. “Sorry.” He looked up at you again. “Wanted to check breakfast in this hotel. Crew said the best time to eat was early, hm, before the best stuff ended.” She shook her head. “You could've ordered whatever through room service,” her lips tight. “C'mon, let's go to the pool.” He let his head drop and followed suit.

Not sure what to make of it, you walked up the elevator and pushed the button to your floor. Coming from the poolside, you heard a pair of steps approaching and, just to be safe, hid behind the panel and pushed the button to your floor a few more times for good measure. A relieved sigh left your lips and the doors closed. Breakfast was a minefield. You weren't sure how long you could stand this without going insane. Letting out a laugh, you noticed how that sentence sounded straight from a teenager's lips, and looked for a cigarette in your pocket as you shook your head. You hoped you learned your lesson; no more of this nonsense and madness. Clear-glass mind. Safe distances. Peaceful future.

Pool plans were doomed to fail today. As you opened your bedroom door, you saw gloomy gray skies taking over the view. Heavy, voluptuous drops seemed to throw themselves at your glass pane. Josh talked on the phone with whoever as you greeted him silently and went to sit by the window. It was hard to know what to make of it all. Of what happened. And what to make of him. What would've happened if you went outside and met him? What did he expect? You were willing to bet he had no plan; meticulously collecting information and manipulating reality so events unfolded to his liking, but a callous boy when he got what he wanted. Then, what? What does he want from you? What's the point of all this? These questions bubbled under your skin as you watched the raindrops running wet trails downwards.

Quick run-through filming plans with Josh, mindlessly watching some workprints and turning your brain off when his face appeared, wearing sunglasses inside. The person that signed the contract for this project simply wouldn't recognize the person you became. You opened your notebook and pretended to work until Josh left the room again. Chainsmoking, you waited until lunchtime came and went, rain pouring non-stop, until it was an acceptable time to fetch a ride with one of the vans for soundcheck. Your assistant came back on time and had the kindness – so you really must be looking like shit – to carry the camera and the recorder for you. You walked behind him, still mindlessly smoking, lighting one cigarette with the end of the other, enclouding yourself in haze. You had to concede a point to him. There was something soothing in disappearing amidst the haze.

Surprising everyone, half the band was already there for soundcheck, just them and their personal roadies, and they all seemed to be exorcizing some demons out in the equipment. Seemed like he had a talent to spread misery wherever he went, you thought, and thanked God this project was almost over. At least filming. Editing would be another beast, but you’d cross that bridge once you got to it. Once you took your place on stage left, filming Brian as he downed a beer while testing the acoustics of the arena, the bass drum was being hit insistently, almost mirroring your forming headache to a beat, trying to catch everyone's ears and eyes.

You had taken off your sunglasses to shoot, so you felt oddly naked; you couldn't look in his direction and run the risk of him looking into your eyes. Like a raven in a battlefield, you remembered from folk tales, that ate the soft eyes of the dead before feasting on the fallen; you knew his gaze could not touch your bare pupils, that the light that reflected off his skin needed to be mediated, dissolved, tamed. You needed distance. You told Josh to stay put as you would try another angle, suddenly sick of filming the same things. He knew to get out of your way as you stepped hard on your way to a light pole, shoulder throbbing in pain under the bouncing weight of the Arriflex as it ricocheted up and down in tandem with your feet.

You listened to a few worried remarks as you started to crawl, almost single handedly, up the pole. The guitar and drums got silent. You stopped mid-climb. “Go on,” you commanded, “I'm not going up this far to shoot you standing on your feet,” you retorted, not looking down, and the guitar was soon beautifully echoing its notes around the arena. The drums took a moment, seemingly concerned, but a drumroll excitedly filled the room before getting in sync with the guitar. It suddenly hit you that this was the closest thing to exchanging words you had with him ever since you left the car a city ago, a ghost of his kiss still on your lips. You climbed taller.

As you balanced the camera and found a nook to lean on, you focused your lens in a wide shot of the stage from above. There was something freeing in being so far from him; finally. Something cracked inside your chest and leaked out of your eyes; salty tears reached your lips. Just a couple more weeks and you'd be home, you promised yourself, hold on tight; but you knew that “home” meant nothing. The closest you felt to it… Leave it. You were slipping further and further from his grip, at least, the hold he had over your body and heart, your very soul; you couldn't go home this way, not a shirt on your back that hadn't been touched by his, the thought of that itching every time you moved. No laundry soap could exorcise his presence from them.

This had to end. On God, this had to end. There can be no hope. Let the tears pile and finally drown the part of you that still ached for his touch, that waited half an hour to see if he spent half an hour waiting for you; let it die. As you focused the camera on his face – oh, so beautiful, there was no use in denying that, not amid your most honest tears – you saw his concentrated expression, and felt like you recognized him for the very first time since the desert, since those lips asked for a stranger's hands to separate your belongings, since those lips serenaded a woman they were supposed to break up with, since they did God knows what to a body that wasn't yours, day in and out, and dared to haunt your dreams as if they had any right to be imprinted on your brain.

You needed this much distance from him, if there was any hope to keep a sliver of dignity before the end of the tour. You felt like a mourning dove watching a wake, keeping vigil over a beloved, but gone, body. It was even safe to look at him from here, lowering your camera; your eyes were protected from this raven-lover, one that found his way through your eyes to your heart, and now would destroy you completely through those same windows to your soul. No, you had to keep a safe distance, protect your gaze, block any way he could access your heart again. It was to stay locked indefinitely, forever, sore and beaten and a sorry pulp of blood. It didn't escape your notice, even then, that your mind categorized him among ravens, beautiful and clever and sacred; not a violent, ugly vulture, even as he indulged in the remains he left of you. Exquisite even in his cruelty.

Intelligent and intentional in this annihilation; you weren't just keeping vigil of a dead relationship, but of the man you thought you knew, of the woman you thought you were. Your chest ached deeply, to the point where you considered getting down from the pole and taking five, but it seemed torturous, to be on the same ground as him again or worse, below, another audience member forgotten. Time flew by as you watched the rest of the soundcheck from above, limbs shaking with the effort, sweating so profusely you felt your peeled skin glued back on again. You shot a bit more, hairy heads from above, and the one you already filmed the most dared to look up, to look for your eyes behind the lenses, but you knew that this time, his gaze was met only by your machine.

You waited for the soundcheck to end, until there was no more acceptable reason for you to be perched among the heating lights, hovering over the scene, and still you took your time going down – beyond the physical labor, it seemed like a part of you that was withering resented the distance from him. Oh, well. Better get in line after every other resentment that took hold of your tightly wound muscles. You went backstage to get some fresh air, preferably outside, but it was really coming down now, rain pouring and the crew complaining; not only did they hate to load the trucks under the rain, but they seemed to have scheduled a fireworks fight later that night. The most recognizable part of you took note of that. It sounded chaotically beautiful.

You noticed by the sound in the dressing room that someone you wished to avoid hadn't returned to the hotel, so you gladly did, finding a spot between Brian's roadie and an unhappy wardrobe manager, probably tasked with some last minute, super specific shopping. You were glad of the silence and ride; if there was anything good that came from the last few weeks, it was Josh's newfound independence. You didn't want to admit, but it was demanding to have him shadowing you – you could not take any more demanding, now. You needed quiet and silence and greasy burgers with fries and a drink. And no more men. You watched the yellow double lines of the road, tightropes like balancing a decision to stay away from any male presence while squeezed between two guys in the middle of a mostly male crew.

After a silent and lonely lunch, you showered and waited, sunken eyes staring back at you in the mirror as you slathered the hotel's moisturizer on your cracked skin. You had time. All you had now was time and space. This love thing was, all in all, very lonely, sickeningly so; you felt a trace of the teenager voice inside returning as you felt the words “madness" and “insanity” crawling up your mind, but you had to concede. There was something crazy, nuts even – to better suit teenager-you's voice – about it, the fact that others wouldn't believe you if you described the man from not a week ago, attached to your hip, honest, loving, caring. He could be charming, anyone could see that; but no one would believe the thoughtfulness that seemed to ooze out of him in every gesture – they would think you were insane. And they'd be right; not that these things didn't happen, but that as they did, they weren't true.

But the weight of this secret, this guy that seemed to exist for you and you alone, pulled you down at every step; you decided to skip the preshow interview altogether, since the band seemed to be in one of their moods and you could barely keep your own in check. At the show, you sent Josh back to the drum riser, his roadie coming out during one of the first songs and complaining to you to keep Josh away, that he was too clumsy and took too much space. You defended your assistant, but agreed that no one needed to go there, anymore; there was enough footage from that angle as it was. Leaving Josh to film some shots without supervision – if he was clever, he'd take your temporary insanity as an opportunity to impress you with some good shots – you walked deeper into the suffocating backstage before exhaling as you found your way to the crowd.

You joined the mass of dancing bodies, no camera with you for the first time in a space such as this, finally just an anonymous audience member; you slipped your backstage pass inside your sweatshirt, undercover. A drop of water in the ocean, you were moved with the tide until close to the barricade, where the most excited teenagers stood, and a wave of affinity washed over you. You watched them as they watched the show with full focus, emotions written out on their faces, buttons of Frank, the robot in the News of the World cover, matched with the band's logo and faces, bootlegged merch made with more passion than any other. You remembered how it was to feel like this, so free and exhilarated and hungry for life. 

A couple of them had buttons that made you realize you shared their taste for annoying blonde men, it seemed; a frown on your lips, you watched and moved in sync with them at I'm In Love With My Car. Putting your sunglasses back on, you watched as they cried with desire and disbelief during Get Down, Make Love, and soon some tears of your own slipped under the tinted glass. It was pathetic, of course, but it felt so honest and empathetic at the same time, releasing bits of the tight bundle of knots in your chest. Tears cleaned the lower rim of the glass frame, that part of him that you kept and used to hide from what he did to you, the world he curated, as you asked, but for worse; curation could very well mean destruction, you knew now.

You didn't cry for exactly the same reasons, as they were overexcited and you were heartbroken, but the weight of that secret you had to keep for yourself; what you knew, the person he could be, the man that cried cutting onions, the man scared of looking foolish in reading glasses, the man that cared for your sunburns and observed you intently before deciding how he'd get close to you. These two different men that were the same one, and only you knew. That song, that concentrated pout; the way he played it was when you couldn't pretend you didn't feel something for him for the first time. His competence, his brilliance, as bright as the sun and as dangerous as fire.

But there seemed, still, to be some release in those tears, baby pink skin grateful for the humid air of the crowd, filled with breaths; an oceanic feeling that allowed you to be rebirthed as this unknown creature. There was no use in trying to act as the woman you were before all this; there was freedom in not knowing. You felt your heart soften, empathy redirected inward. There was curiosity about who this new woman was. 

A new strength budding in your navel, centered, you left the audience and individuated again. Some minor shots captured – this time not just from the band, but the delicate orchestra of the crew, roadies throwing themselves under pianos and dressing managers preparing soft towels in the “doll house” – where the band took breaks and their first stop when leaving the stage – and you felt like just watching the chaos. Making use of the newly discovered camera of your mind. To see better – and somehow it seemed to scare you less, now – you took off the sunglasses he gave you, dropping them on the vanity of the doll house. You were sure someone else would need them.

While the band bit at each other's asses after the concert, fighting over perceived missteps, you left backstage following the local roadies and watched as your crewmates prepared their promised fireworks fight. You shot a few angles of the sparkles against the leaving metallic trucks, cackles and hisses leaving mouths and tubes, but soon decided that you wanted to take part in this. You took a quick break from the fight to hide your equipment in the now empty dressing room; as you held a paper tube and had a crash course on how to handle fireworks, you were soon popping your first sparkly projectile against the indigo night sky. Laughter and light still filled the air when a sequence of black cars with tinted windows left the backstage parking lot. The ghost of a smile on your lips, you realized the person who meant to teach you how to be an active participant in the world was often stuck in his own fairy-tale observation tower.

Pleasantly exhausted muscles – like a child leaving a playground – you fetched a ride back to the hotel in a van busy with half-empty bottles from the dressing room; this was where the leftover drinks found their true owners in the crew's private parties. But you slipped Josh a $20 as an apology for your insanity these last few days and told him to enjoy the party; you needed some sleep. “But- they're going to a titty bar!” Josh exclaimed, seemingly feigning some leftover, misplaced loyalty. “Then enjoy the titty bar. Make good use of that $20,” you messed up his hair, as you'd do to a kid, and you knew then and there that for you, any tension – romantic, sexual or just typical resentment – was resolved. It was a clean, fraternal touch. As it was always meant to be. And you felt a bit less isolated as you draped the duvet over your head and fell into a tranquil sleep; this time, you had a gut feeling he wouldn't touch the thermostat.

But you still jolted awake in the early sunrise, a phantom of plummeting jerking your muscles and making you shoot up in bed. You were dreaming you were falling from the sky from a balcony facing the desert… The realization that you wouldn't heal from this like a stomach bug, puking out your hurting and getting back on your feet, upset you. And the upset followed you until the next city, less spiteful and more exhausting, the weight of trying to get to know this new you, one that can't listen to music without isolating the drum sound, the effort that goes into every strike, the precision that makes the one playing it part of a perfect hybrid machine, flesh and metal, meat grinder of your old self, spitting out this new woman, bloody and sore.

The sight of your period the morning his girlfriend was set to leave soothed you and pissed you off; bloody clumps that made you think of your shedding skin, now rosy and shiny underneath. Every inch of you that touched him seemed to want to get rid of the ghost of his digits; every inch of you that he touched seemed to rot and undo from missing his warmth. Cramps pissing you off, you were eating the greasiest burger you found on catering during a lunch break; early soundcheck that day, you took notice, preparing questions for your interview later. Biting into the red minced meat disc, you were surprised to see a roadie make a bee line to you, out of breath. “What?” you asked. “They're- they're playing together; thought you might want to f-” he spat out, gasping for air; everyone needed to smoke a little less on that tour, you thought, including yourself. “Where?” you pressed, and he swallowed before declaring: “Dressing room.”

On cue, your hands quickly wiped themselves clean and grabbed your camera; good, you thought. That hasn't been lost. You intuitively rushed to the dressing room, even though you hadn't really learned your way around this arena yet. Your rational mind said it was just getting used to how these things organized themselves; something buried deeper seemed to want to remind you of a promise of always being able to find a certain someone. You shook your head; oh, how you wished to get rid of this as simply and painfully as a stomach bug.

You approached the door and got suspicious; there was no music coming from the other side. You lifted a hand to knock and a shiver went up your spine, your body remembering a similar gesture from days ago, and you decided not to knock, just turning the door handle and pushing your way inside.

The dressing room was barely a dressing room, mid-repurpose, not yet a rock band's dressing room but no longer a basketball locker room. Velvet drapes covered half of the lockers, carpets were partially rolled, benches pushed to the side but still visible. But most out of place of all was a silent rockstar that seemed to stop mid-nervous walk, a nervous look on his face that didn't match the smug one your mind seemed to crystalize as the memory of him. You took a step back; he was the only person there. Noticing you were about to leave, a plea left his lips: “Wait.” Embarrassingly, your feet followed his cue. Sighing, you walked into the liminal room, an anger you thought was behind you propelling you forward.

He was silent again. You froze into a statue. He gave a first step in your direction, a swagger and reaching hand reminding you of the uncountable other times he did this exact motion, and how part of you was eager to melt back into his touch. But a wave of hatred washed over it, anesthetizing it, the rush of dormancy making your extremities cold. “Stop.” He followed your order. You looked around the room and confirmed you were alone; this was a trap, you thought, he used what he knew about you and his power over the setting you were stuck in so you'd bring yourself to his footsteps, too lazy and full of himself to even go after his prey. Your hands were shaking in anger, you noticed with a strange detachment. “I thought I couldn't respect you any less,” you said, and were surprised by how steady your voice sounded, “but here you are. Always full of surprises.”

He gave another step in your direction. “Don't you dare to come fucking near me,” you spat, stopping him in his tracks again. “Please, let me ex-” he started, but there was a creature in you that couldn't bear to hear his voice, the empty room walls closing in, the weight of the camera pushing you into the ground. A creature, trapped; a creature ready to gnaw off its own limbs to be rid of the rope and chain. “Quiet. I don't want to hear it.” His mouth froze mid sentence. Trying to recompose himself, he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

“I couldn't just send her back to Lon-” he dared to continue, voice high leaving his tight throat, but you cut him again. “Are you fucking deaf? Can't you hear me?” you asked, voice low and calm contrasting with your words. For a moment, something took over your eyes and you saw him how you wanted to see him: stupid. He looked ridiculous in his neon green pants and fluffy sweater; he looked like a dog in a show, polished up and made over, anything natural and true hidden under layers of artifice. Even his hair had been recently touched up, you noticed. Any tinge of green was gone, his darkened roots dyed a platinum-gold. But you blinked and the cruel distance left your sight, your numb fingers itching to entangle themselves in the teased mop of hair. You curled them into fists.

You walked to a table just beside the door and carefully placed your equipment on top of it, the surgical preciseness that propelled you into a fight letting you know in advance you needed both hands free. The one that held the camera quickly pointed a stiff finger in his direction. “Don't you dare to give me excuses for your asinine behavior. Coward.” He swallowed hard again, and the sound of your name leaves his lips. “Please. Please. Let me explain.” The sound of him calling to you shattered your composure, and you were the one left speechless. He took advantage of the silence.

“I just… You never said you wanted to be with me. Not really.” He tested the ground beneath his feet and found it steady; he perked up his ears and found the room still silent. Giving another step in your direction, he continued, slowly. “And… What was I supposed to do? I didn't know she'd be there. It was a surprise.” He was within arm’s reach, now. “And you weren't there. I was alone. You wanted to be away from me.” His voice broke, and he stopped. “I asked you to stay. With me.” He reached for you. “I wanted you to stay.” He rested a hand on your shoulder. “Please.”

His touch, as it always did, gave you a rush of electricity akin to a shock; unpleasant, now. It broke you out of your frozen state. “Please what?” You said, and pushed his hand away from you, looking to get some distance from the warmth that always emanated from his skin. “Don't you dare fucking touch me again,” you warned, pointed finger and tone, and he lifted both hands in defeat. “Please what?” You pressed again, and watched his Adam's apple bobbing, manly, preparing itself to release cowardly excuses to you – you were sure.

“What, Roger?” You asked, almost snarling, and he seemed heartbroken to hear his name coming from your lips like this. “What the fuck do you want from me now? What else is even there to take?” You accused, feeling tears accumulating over your waterline; you blinked them away, blurring your vision. Good. It was easier if you couldn't see him. “Because from all of your fucking excuses, it seems like I'm the one to blame for your fucking behavior.”

Clear vision, now, you watched as he looked up, blinking away tears of his own. “Are you even able to apologize? Can your mouth even say ‘sorry'? It looks like you're physically unable to do it. Like the fucking coward you are.” You tore into him, and he blinked again, tears rushing down his cheeks. It was beautiful, sadly; he just had a way of doing things that made everything cinematic. You shook your head, focusing. “Pushing me out, away; ignoring me, humiliating me, pretending you barely fucking knew me after finally getting what you wanted from me. You wanted to know if you could break me, if you could make me fall for your lies, and you did. Congratulations. Not now. Not anymore.”

Your mouth seemed filled with venom. You were ready to bite into him, crush him into a ball of pain, since that's what he'd done with you. You felt an urge to finally retaliate. “Because I was stupid enough to let you get close, to get to know me. But now I know you. You're too much of a coward to even let me know this,” you pointed to the two of you, “is done. You are a cynic. You are a liar. You thought it'd be funny to screw me over like this, to humiliate me in front of everyone, to test if you could charm me into oblivion, if you could destroy me,” you exclaimed, widening your eyes in anger, and it was his turn to interrupt you. “No! No, it wasn't like this, no, I wasn't-” but you were quicker: “Shut up! Stop lying to me!”

“Just fucking admit it,” you said, tired. “I won't because there's nothing like this to admit! What you said is simply not true,” Roger got back, pouting. “I can be a coward, I am, but not like this. Not like this. Please,” he continued, but couldn't say the words he needed to. “Why in the world would I ever believe you again? You are a liar! You're unable to say the fucking truth, just like you're unable to fucking apologize!” He blinked in pain, more tears streaming down his cheeks; nose running, you noticed you were actually crying, too. “I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. There. You have it.” He exclaimed, a trapped animal himself, and you felt guilt revolving in your stomach. You hated yourself more for feeling it.

“Now what? What do you expect from me?” you snarled, and he winced. “Do you want me to throw myself back into your arms? Do you want me back in your bed? Because you can't sleep in it alone, right? And you'll turn anyone stupid enough into her so you won't-” you pushed on, but he interrupted again. “That's not true! That's not what it was!” But you weren't having it. “Then what was it, Roger? What the fuck else do you want more from me? You took and took and took and used it against me! Even bringing me here under a work excuse because you knew I didn't want to see your face ever again! That you denied me the chance to have this fight with you when you deserved it most, right when I got to your door and heard her, and heard your phony flirting, and watched you discard me!”

He winced again, harder. “I am exhausted by you! I don't want to hear it anymore, whatever fucking lie you still got, I'm sick of the tone of your voice, I'm sick of your lies, I'm sick of your face! I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you! There is nothing to salvage here, there is no version of this where we go back to whatever lie I was living because of you, there's nothing. There's nothing,” you affirmed, voice breaking, and your shoulders started shaking as wails took over your throat.

He rushed to you and hugged you hard; the smell of him inebriated you, his coos made you want to disappear, his hands caressing your head and back made you want to believe him. Your cries continued to shake your chest, crashing onto him again and again, and he was just a solid support, warm. This made you hate him even more. “Stop! Get away from me. I don't want you near me,” you lied, your mind trying to take control of your body. You weakly pushed him away and took a step back. Hatred filled your lips.

“I despise you. I despise your lies, I despise your self-importance, I despise how you steamroll anyone, how you use every tool you have to test your influence over others. I hate your manipulation and your exhibitions of power. You are a fake.” You swallowed, watching him take your lashings in silence. You needed to strike deeper, to hurt him even a fraction of what he did to you. “Fucking counterfeit in everything, a fake lover, a fake fucking rockstar, eternally a fucking victim of everyone! Where's all your might? You can't even break up with a woman that hopes to bear your surname after cheating on her for weeks, just because the stupid other woman didn't beg you to do it? You're either a fraud or the most cynical bastard I ever met. I think you found a way to be both, and I can't even comprehend it yet.”

“And you know what's worse? How you pretended to have all this power, this far-reaching thing, how you could make things appear out of thin air, how you get others to do your dirty work for you. You made someone go through my stuff. You made a fucking employee lie to get me here to you. Were you scared? Of me? Of her?” He stepped back, crashing on the side of a table full of makeup. He leaned into it for support. “You are not this mighty creature, this powerful creature, you're nothing like you tried to seem to me. Do you know what you are, Roger?” you spat, and he shook his head. “You are a fucking cog. You're scared of everything, of everyone, of what they'd think, of what they might do. You're just the fucking clown who's supposed to be where you're supposed to be on the time someone else set for you. You're as small as you fear.”

He let out a whimper as tears rushed down his cheeks. “You don't feel like this. I know you don't,” he almost pleaded, and you shook your head. In the mirror, you noticed your eyes were as red as his. “I do. You don't know me anymore.” He sighed. “Could you… Could you just not tell the others-” He started, but anger took over you. “Oh my god! What the fuck? Tell who about what? You were the one that showed me off to everyone in this fucking crew! And then humiliated me by ignoring me in front of everyone as soon as you had the original back in your arms!” You screamed and watched his cheeks glow red.

“It's embarrassing enough to me to have been seen, another clown in your circus, an understudy for another woman you parade around a group of men in a fucking humiliation ritual, everyone knows what she fears, everyone saw it. And you know what? I don't feel jealous of her,” you shrugged. “I wanted to smash her face into concrete every time I saw your arms around her, and I wanted her to choke and die when I went to bed alone and could guess exactly how, where you'd touch her. I am not yet made of stone. But I know enough to feel sorry for her,” and you could see his hands shaking, “because you are disgusting, a weight pulling anyone stupid enough to fall for you. You are a fucking curse. I wouldn't wish you on my worst enemy.”

His face was red, a stream of tears carving into his cheeks, mouth agape looking for air. “Stop your crying. You don't deserve to look so hurt,” you spat, and he wiped his tears with shaking fingers. You wiped your own. “I have to go back to work. But know,” you said, “that no matter how much you think I might want you, I don't. I don't want you anymore.” You promised, voice cracking with the weight of what you knew was a lie. But it could be true. Eventually. He called your name again, and a sob left your lips. “Please. That's not true.” he pushed, his cracked voice still like honey in your ears. “I'm sorry. Please. I want this. I want us to work,” he stated, and you shook your head.

“Please. I know I fucked up, and I regret it. I'm really sorry,” he went on, but you walked back to your camera. “Don't go, please!” Roger exclaimed, but you already felt the comforting weight of the camera on your shoulder, grounding you. “This – whatever this was – is over. I've had enough of you.” He cried out your name as you approached the door. You turned to face him. “Please! Please! What do you want from me? Who do you think I am? You know-” he gasped, “you know what I am. I was scared. I'm still scared! Maybe I'm afraid of you,” he admitted, “of all your quiet judgement and how headstrong you are. And how I know- I know you'll find someone better. But I can't- I simply cannot- Please. Please,” he begged. You shook your head.

“Are you begging for forgiveness? What?” you asked, intending to sound accusatory, but your voice was just tired. “Yes. Yes. Please,” he pleaded. “I won't. I will forget you. I will. There will be a day when I won't even remember your name,” you intended to state, but it was almost a prayer. “But I'll never forgive you. Ever. You'll have to live with the blame forever. And no number one hit, no pretty girlfriend, no nothing will ever fix it,” you enunciated, a curse on him. “Goodbye, Roger,” and with that, you left him, closing the door behind you.

You chain-smoked outside the venue, camera packed, trying to decide what to do. You felt like hiding when you noticed a car with tinted windows leaving, and something within you knew exactly who was there, but you realized how childish hiding would be. He was in the wrong, his face redder and more ruined by tears than yours. So let him see it. After he left, you considered washing your face and staying to avoid seeing him at the hotel; sighing, you knew it was cowardice. So you found a cab and went back to the hotel, hoping your face would look better by the time you had to face the crew in the corridors.

Greeting Josh, you heard him greeting you back with a mouth full of food. Turning to face him, you noticed him eating caviar on top of some canapé and washing it down with a mini bottle of champagne. You lifted an inquisitive brow. “A concierge dropped it here with a card,” he said, passing you a sealed envelope. “Sorry. I was starving,” Josh apologized, but your ears were already ringing. You rip the envelope open. “I can't live without you,” the message starts, in a handwriting you knew so well; you didn't need to see who signed it. You were seeing red with anger. “I also figured you wouldn't want it considering who I think it's from-” he stated, but was cut off when you pulled the bottle from his hand and took the canapé tray from him.

Josh called your name, concerned, and you stepped hard against the corridor carpet as you crossed to the elevator. It wasn't on your floor anymore, but you could guess exactly where you had to go; you shouldered your way through the heavy door of the service stairs and ran up to the top floor. Josh was breathless behind you, worried but curious, and was able to follow you back into the corridor when you arrived right as the door slammed shut behind you. You bolted to a door with a “do not disturb” sign even in the mid afternoon, and the voice coming from it confirmed your target. In a calculated fit of rage, you threw the champagne bottle against his door, prompting him to gasp on the other side of the door. 

For a moment, you watched stunned as the crashing noise rang through the hallway, bubbly amber liquid running down the white door, green glass shards glued to the lacquered wood by their frosty sweat. There was a certain beauty in ruining things, the way they created something new; you wondered if he felt the same, if he also knew. Before Roger could react and open the door, you threw the tray against the same spot; in the blink of an eye you were already rushing down the stairs and back to your room. You could hear Roger calling for you, inquisitive, your name echoing down the stairs.

When Josh arrived back to your room, flustered, you noticed a certain glimmer in his eyes that reminded you of your early days, but with a friendly look that eased the admiration. “Pretty rock 'n’ roll of you,” he stated, and you almost laughed, opening a water bottle and drinking it freezing cold to calm your nerves. “I'm sorry. I didn't know it ended this badly,” he said, and you shook your head. “Let's not talk about it,” you commanded. “Was this sent for me? Did the concierge say it was for me?” you asked, and he confirmed it. “From now on, don't accept any deliveries for me. None. The workprints are in your name,” you stated, “so there's no reason for any deliveries for me.”

The waltz continued. Every city had a new delivery, a new basket of goods, round and round, yet you were able to elude any of his attempts to reach you. Your mood was also stuck on a ferris wheel, up and down and up again. There were days you could ease back into this new woman, her new skin comfortable, growing thicker as you broke it in, after parties for the crew only, roaming on your feet around the few and far between walkable cities the tour stopped in, whiskey and loud music – not them, never them. There were other nights you felt sore, the effort of adapting to this broken heart aching like a displaced rib, physical and exhausting, radiating stings of pain whenever you dared to feel again.

But you were surprised by the resilience you found within: before, you feared letting anyone in, feared a creativity dulled by intimacy, feared the pain of rejection as instinctively as one fears death. But coming out of it, it was undeniable you could survive it; you were, after all, still standing. In the sleepless nights where you found yourself watching the shadows from the street dancing on the ceiling, you listed things you noticed you were still able to do: shapeshifting into The Director no matter where your mood found itself; taking teasing in stride; squeezing whatever opportunity for the better. Thinking less in visuals and more in descriptions when distance was needed – you always said distance was a necessary quality to make a good documentary, but you never had to work this hard for it until now.

Though you were winning the battle, or at least you thought so. When Josh brought the workprints, you didn't disassociate when Roger's face appeared, able to see him as a subject again and offering constructive criticism about your assistant's shots – you couldn't go back to filming him alone again just yet, uncomfortable with what the framing might reveal about your feelings to yourself. As a director, you let it slide; there were more than enough shots of him for a documentary all his own. As an editor, you were still scared of what you might find in the film, but you cut the anxiety short: that's a problem for later.

Teasing came less from where you'd expect – an all male crew that seemed to respect your recent open dismissal of someone who's basically their too-pretty, too-talented, ever-knowing boss – and more from where you were hoping to get radio silence. The fight didn't solve anything, a torturous choreography of miscommunication and pain, so you hoped to leave it all behind. But Roger still emanated a certain intensity in your brief interactions, one you'd hoped would fade. It was him getting inside Brian's rental when you convinced the guitarist to give you an interview alone; his constant background appearances every time you framed John checking the accounting before leaving the hotel, even missing his beloved soundchecks.

Finally, it was him gazing intensely into the viewfinder as you checked the lights on a dim-lit hotel ballroom to get a different background for a longer interview with all four, trying to reach your eyes behind the glass. Once you gave Josh the thumbs-up for the audio, a low voice asked intimately: “Is everything to your liking, director?” Roger's gaze was still piercing. Freddie, out of patience, slapped his leg and said: “Enough, Rog, or she'll make us all look bad. Don't drag us with you!” He earned a round of laughter from everyone, including you. The room – that seconds earlier was holding its breath – had such a relaxed energy now that you got one of the best interviews you had with them. Well, from three of four members.

The mood was getting conclusive for everyone as the tour arrived in LA for its final dates: four consecutive shows at the LA Forum. And the final break in the form of two days where everyone seemed busy visiting distant friends, lovers and colleagues in the area – well, at least a break for the white collars of the tour. While the band and inner circle lounged at the pool, the crew was updating the stage at the Forum so everything would be bigger, louder and brighter. You took a peek at the guest list and wondered if there was even one person in the audience that bought tickets. 

The first night of the break, laughter reached your ears through every open window, crawling inside with the warm breeze. Watching the fan spinning around endlessly above your frying head, you listed things you needed to do: send clothes for washing and buy another pack of contraceptive pills and reorganize your bag before going to the next city because you were afraid the zipper would pop open if you didn't fold your shirts. Then you realized the next city would be going back home. The next time you had to wash your clothes, you'd be the one to do it. The next pack of pills would be bought in 30 days in the pharmacy down your street. So you started a list anew. You had to repack your bags and throw out anything you couldn't stand seeing away from the context of the tour. 

You got on your feet, skin itching against the fabric of the t-shirt you wore as a hospital gown, dishevelled hair pulled up in a ponytail to bring you some much needed clarity. You found a tour t-shirt still folded in a sack of clean clothes; you plucked it out with only your fingertips and threw it in the trash. Cursed object. You sorted through packs of photography film for any personal shots – which you used less than you'd hoped – and sighed in dismay as you realized that would mean asking for a manual check at the airport. Then, smell-testing slacks you couldn't remember wearing but just to be sure, a silver object slid out of a pocket and fell mutedly on the carpet.

The hairs on your neck stood up. The moonlight reflected on the floor where a rectangle of silver stared back at you, heavy and polished, still haunted by the touch of its owner: it was Roger's lighter. You were frozen, locked in place: it was too early to have a piece of him back in your space, too personal – the lighter seemed intricately connected to his fingers, his lips, his tongue. It was unbearable to keep it and unfathomable to discard it; the sight of it made you queasy with desire, the idea of throwing it out seemed equivalent to cutting off his own silver tongue.

Without daring to touch it, you used a tissue to put it back into the unused slacks’ pocket. Whoever split the two of you must've gotten it mixed, or the hurry was so pressing they barely paid attention to the task at hand. Maybe destiny was just playing games with you. But you were so drained, a shell; you pushed it all back inside the bag and slid under the sheets. That would have to wait. Silent tears rushed down your cheeks, and you promised yourself you'd stay in the same place for the rest of time, enough with living out of a pair of bags, doing and undoing your life every few days. You missed having a drawer to just throw whatever it was you needed to forget and never look back, never think of it again. You knew the lighter would come back to haunt you in a matter of days, but not now. Now you needed rest.

The encounter with the lighter put you in one of your worst moods yet. You thought of a stomach bug so frequently that you seemed to manifest one; besides that, gossip had reached you that Roger's girlfriend was expected for the break. Though she was nowhere to be seen, apparently still in London, sick – maybe both of you now shared a strain of cooties, you sighed. A feverish sleep was the only activity you could manage in that final break. Good; it was probably more productive, or at least less harmful, than the last one, feverous and delirious in its own ways. But hearing his voice crawling up from the pool, all laughter and cheers, made your heart sick, throbbing with a level of pain you thought was behind you.

Josh dutifully refused any deliveries in your name as you ordered room service and Tylenol under his, sweating and shaking under the duvet. He was spending the days out, and also the first night – someone had to have some fun in that room – so it felt like you had the room for yourself. And you cried, tears and sweat dissolving into the pillows you drooled on in your feverish naps, disturbing hallucinatory dreams of your body undoing into another, a sense of belonging forever lost, limbs dismembering as if they were your own.

In the first night, you dreamed – or perhaps feverishly tripped – about a version of you that would be sharing his room just floors above yours, dancing on the terrace and sharing meals, rolling in sheets free of any of your sickly fluids, phantoms of past and lost joy haunting your sleep. And worse yet: you could swear you saw, from your own balcony, your face as it was when you took this job, serious with a chin held high and square jaw. The “you” you once were looked at your body grieving something that, down to her set bones, she knew was counterfeit. And you could only watch her watching you physically unravel from something you thought you were healing from.

When sunlight caressed your face and woke you the next day, you felt an ease in your sore muscles; for a moment, you didn't know where you were. Then the phone rang. Mindlessly, you picked it up; but you were shaken awake when his voice called your name, unsure, from the other side of the line. He hadn't tried that one before, surprisingly, yet; you thought that was below him. But his voice was quiet and regretful, not sensual or poised. A part of you considered saying something in return. Then Josh rolled awake in the other side of the room and you remember all that he did, all you went through so very publicly; no violins, no regretful tone, would bring you to forgive him while still in the eye of the storm. When his melodic voice called your name a second time, you knew you couldn't listen to another word he said.

“Are you there?” He asked with a low voice, almost pious, but your hand was already smashing the receiver back onto its hook, beige plastic protesting against your aggression with a loud clack. A second later, it rang again. More violently, you picked it up just to push it down and cut the call again. After a moment of consideration, you took the phone off the hook and left it out; no one would be able to reach you this way. Not him. You looked up and Josh's pale face looked back at you. “Leave it like this,” you told him, and he nodded, a look of pity forming on his face. 

“Sure, boss. I'm surprised it took him this long to try the phone,” he joked, and you let out air through your nose, the closest to a laugh you could manage. “Five days and this is done,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “Hey,” you remembered, “could you take some unused film back home for me? Don't want to go through manual check on Monday.” Josh playfully saluted, and you laughed weakly; something got underneath your skin once you noticed how squeamish you'd be to push an unwanted task unto your assistant at the start of the tour.

The fever wasn't really gone, but you needed to be back on your feet. Teeth chattering, you took a freezing shower to try to control your fever; putting on a sweater over your colorless skin, you were surely the most covered person on the crew. You rushed through the lobby to avoid meeting anyone's gaze and took a cab to roam around a mall: a tour ending meant a tour wrap party. And a wrap party meant networking. So the professional in you – or however you'd call the machine-gun-steel-woman inside you that bossed you around ever since you were 19 and high in Woodstock – got up on her feet and made you try on clothes fit for a Queen party.

But everything seemed bland, boring, or worse: performative and ridiculous. You felt like you were watching a skinwalker when you looked in the mirror and found both a suited woman in a dark gray tailleur and a golden girl in a metallic mini-dress with an open back. You felt disconnected to your skin; the best you felt at this was, you ruefully admitted, when your clothes were taken from you and you had to navigate a rockstar's closet, his glamour transferring to you in a way that felt more authentic than any designer dress you could shop for.

You left the mall and crossed the street looking for a coffee shop. There, you sipped on tar-black coffee and asked the stylish waitress where you could find nice clothes; she wrote an address on the back of a napkin and told you to take a cab there. You found yourself in a little boutique called “Ariadne” and the store window already impressed you: a black dress with a deep neck line and a slit down the leg, composed in its seriousness and defiant in its display of skin. You were fascinated but decided it wasn't really for you. Still, walking inside, you tried on a sequence of beautiful clothes that just didn't fit right, too much fabric piling on your waist or too little covering your ass.

The helpful seller offered you the dress on the display glass, but you said you didn't think you could wear it; she asked why. You thought for a second. “I think it's for someone more confident than me,” you said, and she made a displeased face. “That's not a good reason,” she said, and you raised your brows. “Everything's a costume. You will be someone more confident because you found the right clothes for this new version of you,” she offered, and you bit your lip. “I'm not sure that's how it works for me,” you shrugged, but she insisted. “Good. Don't be sure: just try on the dress,” she said, already pushing it onto your arms.

You were curious enough to do just so. As you pushed the fabric down your torso, you were surprised by how comfortable it felt; supportive in the chest area by how tight the fabric clung beneath your breasts, and not restrictive of your movements thanks to the deep slit down your leg. Once you left the changing room, the seller cheered and offered a pair of black heels to match. Already grieving for your feet, you were grateful to find that the square heel was comfortable and the straps glued the shoe to your feet safely. “You are a wizard,” you complimented the saleswoman at the cashier, “these are the first comfortable party clothes I've ever found”. “No, dear girl,” she shrugged elegantly, “just call me Ariadne.”

You entered the lobby in better spirits, and decided to keep more spirits coming to cheer you up. Rushing to the bar with your new clothes safely stored in a discreet black shopping bag, you were deciding on a drink fit for an almost empty stomach when a feminine shriek made you – and the bartender, and the rest of the guests on the bar – turn and face the lobby through the tinted glass that separated them. You swallowed hard when you recognized his girlfriend's face reddened with tears, mascara streaks running down her sculpted cheeks. And just to her side was him, Roger – your mind delighted to think of his name even as your chest ached ever so slightly – golden even with dark circles under his steel-blue eyes, wearing one his button downs that you loved the most to steal from him, a vision in white linen and tight jeans.

But a tense scene seemed to be developing on the other side of the glass. It was hard to make out what the accusation was exactly from high-pitched screams and pleas, but you had more than enough intel to know what it was probably about. Your throat burned as you sipped the gimlet and hid your face behind the glass out of instinct and guilt. Roger, to his credit, seemed to be taking the lashes well, though looking almost distant from his body being humiliated in a hotel lobby. Unlike the sobbing mess he became the last time you spoke. But you put the thought aside with another citrusy sip, almost sour enough to pull the sides of your lips downward.

You looked around and realized the bar – full enough considering it wasn't even lunchtime yet – was distracted with the sight of the lovers’ quarrel. There was a distorted sense of justice in your heart as you watched Roger's blush rushing upwards from his neck, a path you could still remember so well. But it wasn't as pleasant as you'd hoped. His blood might be spilled, sure, and it felt close to vengeance; but it didn't come from your hands, stuck behind stupid glass. Though, you were sure there was still a way you could be pulled into this mess and humiliated twice.

The muzak in the lobby bled into the soft jazz that hummed from the speakers around the art-deco bar, and the buzz of the conversations about the couple muffled their words even more. You tried to focus on the scene at hand to get a grasp of whether Roger was the only one the girl was aiming for. Her pointed finger was almost limp, waggling in his direction while her back was straight as a ballerina's; you seemed to be reaching the same conclusion simultaneously – this was as embarrassing for her as it was for him. There was a sacrifice of her image, too, in being the one cheated on, and no amount of screaming could garner enough sympathy to make her the sole winner of that fight.

A pang of guilt weighed your heart and burdened your shoulders, matching Roger's own tense deltoids as he looked down, quiet. This was also your fault. It was easy to forget the harm you helped inflict on this woman, as sorry and pathetic now as you were barely a week ago, as humiliated by the proximity to him as you still felt. Sympathy could only go so far, and you looked around them and noticed the grinning faces looking away as she made a scene. There was no place to put that hurt that wouldn't push her down with it. You couldn't join the audience that entertained this scene. And you needed to breathe. Back into your room. Safe.

You left a $5 bill on the table and made a bee line, head down, straight to the elevator lobby, pushing the button and praying for the doors to slide open already. In a paranoid haze, you heard your name being called and looked up, almost expecting to be involved in the drama wrapping in the lobby. But it was a bellboy carrying a package covered in stamps. You stayed frozen in place watching him, noticing in your peripheral vision as Roger's girlfriend – or, perhaps, ex – made a dramatic exit, seemingly waiting for him to go after her. But he was also not in his body, it seemed; as the bellboy called your full name this time, making sure you were the intended recipient, Roger looked up, locking eyes with you.

“Madam, please, we've been trying to deliver this for days,’’ he pleaded, relieved when you accepted it from his hands. “Apparently, it's been hopping from hotel to hotel behind you, and no one's able to deliver it to you,” he explained as you signed the delivery note. “Oh,” you let out, realizing that Josh's refusal of deliveries had an unexpected casualty. Looking down, you read the sender's name and realized that the box with the Super 8 film of those forbidden days has been following you for as long as you've been haunted by heartbreak. “Thank you,” your weak voice muttered, and the bellboy left you alone.

Roger's gaze was still trained on you once you looked up at him. You could feel the sickly sweat gluing strands of your hair to your forehead. You needed to exorcise this – guilt, longing, rage – if you had any hope of feeling okay again. An idea seemed to bubble under your feverish skin. Enough air conditioning and cold showers; it was time to fight fire with fire. You tucked the box under your arm and held it tightly against your ribs. Looking back one last time, you held his gaze for a moment before sliding inside the open elevator doors and disappearing.

Roger felt limp, impotent; castrated by both women – better yet, by himself, using both of their pairs of hands. Guilt was not an unknown feeling, and it rested nicely on the pit of his stomach, comfortable. Hell, it wasn't even the first time that specific girlfriend screamed at him in a hotel lobby. Still, this felt final. Especially because he found no desire to follow her outside in the hopes of smothering out the issue and continuing the doomed dance he's been her pair for so long. He wanted to go after you, still. To be humiliated, stepped on, screamed at. To be kissed, forgiven, held. Anything would do. Oh, to be the box tucked against your waist. Anything would be better than this sorry distance.

But he was afraid. Ever since he admitted that in that final fight – final for now, he reminded himself, hopeful – that he was scared of you, it was impossible to run from it. That's where the thrill came from, he was sure, the obsession and compulsion to just be around you, orbit whatever place you graced with your quiet intensity. To catch your eye, to please, to get a laugh. To get even more. Companionship. Intimacy. Love. He'd roll at your feet and spend all his time trying to guess how to get a reaction from you with an intensity that made him stop writing verses here and there to avoid going home empty handed after a tour, before the inevitable month back home where he'd try to gather anything good enough to take to the studio with him.

Yet, the redirection of his creative efforts wasn't what had scared him the most – though, he could feel it would, if given more time. It was how you'd go quiet, retreat back into your mind, and the only way he could think to get you back out and with him was to admit how much he cared, most of the time without even thinking. Letting slip pet names you already held inside himself for weeks. Thinking out loud about the jealousy he felt of every other man that was more of an equal to you. Daring to let out a desire to just stay there, with you, a shared bed in every city he'd ever have to step foot on again; his bed, back home, with you snoring under the covers.

And to know that you didn't feel the same. Not exactly. How embarrassing, this time, to be the one asking for more, for compromise and titles. How karmic. He had enough to pay for, considering all he's done before ever setting eyes on you. How he'd wish to pay it in any other way. How, as he watched the pointer on top of the elevator doors declare you were back in your room, he desired to follow you there. And how his legs tremble to think of the closed door he'd surely face for minutes, hours, as you just ignored him. He feared your rejection more than he feared death. And he microdosed a death-like experience when you refused to take him as yours, back in that desertic bedroom, dreamy and nightmarish; the embarrassment of his realization that you were completely in control of your senses and argued against him, his cowardice and infidelity, was enough to keep his lead-filled legs in place forever.

But he needed to move. His assistant lifted a brow and pointed his head to the back of the hotel, where he was already on his way to the car to the sound check before being stopped by his now ex – easy transition, he noticed; he'd been microdosing that breakup, as well, for a while. Roger nodded, weak; missing sound checks could not be a habit he took to the next tour, he made a note to himself. But today, everyone would understand his need to lay low. They'd probably be grateful to avoid one of his moods; apparently, that's how his affair – the word seemed inappropriate in that case – had been discovered.

Someone at whom he'd thrown a tantrum because of a light issue, or a sound issue, or a slight electric shock; whatever, these things happened by the hour. Whoever it was mentioned to someone, who mentioned it to someone else, and so it went all throughout the London air until it got to the right and suspicious pair of ears. She even managed to bring a bill from the rental – for two – of the Arizona mansion. Roger made a note to make less enemies, but sighed; it was fairly easy to be disliked and plotted against, in his experience.

That's why he was surprised that your name managed to stay out of the gossip that crossed the sea, travelling through phone lines and crew members' letters back home. It made him respect you even more, if possible; kindness recognized. Though, he sorrowfully admitted, not by him. Not when there was still time. He dragged his feet across to the carpet until he was in the same elevator you just used; he knew it was useless to try and follow you. 

He had his chance before you left him to go to a photography lab; he had his chance when his assistant warned that his ex was coming in twenty minutes and they needed his go-ahead to get everything set for her arrival so there wouldn't be a problem. And when he hesitated, the look of judgement that he'd lose his model girl for a tour affair – that fucking word again – that could be made to disappear just in time for the millionth time. And the empty space where you'd be beside him just made it harder to fight back. So he nodded his death sentence.

It felt like pushing through mud to cross the floor to his room, empty and ghostly; he hadn't brought anyone back to his room ever since you left. Or – he corrected himself – you were made to leave. Oh, there was also his ex right after your departure. But that was as lonely and empty as he was now. He picked the hotel's ashtray, a Bic lighter and a new pack of Marlboro Reds and padded to the side balcony. A huge, stupid room; balconies on every wall, overlooking the streets around the building in every direction. This one was small enough to feel cozy, not just lonely, to sit there.

It gave him a privileged view of the theater where he was supposed to be rehearsing; hell, it seemed Brian even had the other two as company, a rare occurrence. Distant from himself, he felt like he was driving a slow, old car as he maneuvered his body to smoke cigarette after cigarette, protecting the small flame against the wind with his ungainly hands. It was hard to recognize the songs that reached his ears, at first, without hearing himself marking the tempo. Still, the soundcheck proceeded as it was supposed to; he didn't even need replacing.

The peak of dissociation hit when he realized they were playing his song – Sheer Heart Attack – one that took him years to find, finish, cut. Roger got on his feet, unsure of himself. It felt oddly deeper than it was; it cut right through him. He wasn't needed anywhere, by anyone. Wasn't even necessary to replace him as a lover, a colleague, nothing. He could just… disappear. With a sigh, he corrected himself once again: it's not that he could hypothetically disappear where he wanted to be the most. It's that he was already gone.

With the side of his eye, he caught some movement on the loading dock. Through instinct alone, he knew it in his bones it was you before his eyes could confirm it. And there you were: deliberate and precise movements, efficient steps balancing heavy hands; you walked to an empty trash can. Curious, his eyes were glued on you as you put some of what you carried on the ground and got back up with only a kitchen knife and the package from before in your hands. With one swift motion, you split the box open; rolls of film were neatly piled inside. One at a time, you unspooled them and filled the open mouth of the trash can with the dark insides of the film reels.

Roger recognized the empty cartridges that you lined orderly to the side of the can: it was the Super 8 films. He thought you'd hold onto them, a proof of the miracle you lived together for two glorious days, in total, just like he held onto the polaroids he took of you. Holding a scream, he watched as you opened a tiny glass bottle – gin from the hotel mini bar, he recognized; his eyes were trained enough on the sight of a Beefeater bottle – and poured it on top of the unspooled reels, soaking them.

You placed the empty glass just beside the cartridges. A cigarette was placed between your lips; in another fleeting gesture, a flash of silver reflected the sun into Roger's eyes, a quick drag, a prompt throw of the lighted stick forward, and then, flames. The fire engulfed the trashcan as you just stood and watched. Roger fell to his knees and leaned against the detailed metalwork of the balcony railing. He was speechless. Were you really doing that? How could you? Burn it all, pretend it never happened!

But you were very still. You picked another mini bottle from your pocket and quietly drank it as you watched the flames. Black smoke crawled up, past your balcony and up to the heavens. There seemed to be something else but rage in you; the sight of the smoke reminded him of a funeral pyre. Your demeanor was more fit for a funeral than a fight; after finishing the drink, you stood quietly, guarding the fire and making sure it all melted into a sticky tar. After making sure the memories were destroyed, you picked the cartridges and bottles from the floor and threw them into an almost full trash can before disappearing back inside.

Roger felt grief knocking him to the ground, sinking to the marble floor. There was something… final. It wasn't revenge; he could work with revenge. It almost seemed detached from him, like his part in the fire was an afterthought. You seemed to be ridding yourself of a weight as the flames devoured the dark plastic. He wondered if it was regret, despising ever letting him in. He couldn't be sure, of course; but Roger could swear his intuition pointed that this was about you, forgiving… yourself.

He remembered the look of guilt you carried earlier, waiting for the elevator, after watching the fight. Of course! His heart filled with warmth as he realized how much he still loved you, fair and honest, unafraid of responsibility and filled with self-respect, enough to consider the hurt you caused while still hurting so much, so visibly. And all because of him. And, with a sudden gust of wind, the warmth in his heart turned to a frozen weight pressing his chest down. If he really loved you… he had to leave you be. He had to let you heal.

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