He looks straight at me, and I am right back there in Ottawa, outside Civic Center where we kissed next to the tour bus that I had not yet smashed. I’m in the cabin up in Bismarck where I handed him some part of me that he politely declined. I’m in San Francisco picking a fight with him, in New York watching him go through records he doesn’t plan on buying as he sneaks glances at me working behind the counter, and then we are on the backroom floor, hoping to god Eric doesn’t come early for his shift.

He breathes evenly in the dark. We hear female laughter from a distance, maybe the parking lot or somewhere along the beach. Happy and faraway. A dog barks. “I’ve got one,” he then says, leaning in again and pointing at the sky. “A Gibson’s Flying V. There’s the guitar neck, and there’s the body.” “I see it. What’s it called?” “The Guitar constellation. Obviously.”

Instead of casting suggestive looks around, I spend my evening talking bullshit. Always a valid option as people want to hear me talk about me. It’s good we’ve got something in common. Crowds appear around me without me having to try. I retell the story of that one time me, Bob Dylan and Iggy Pop got horribly drunk in Baltimore and started a band, but broke up the following day due to artistic differences. I launch into my favourite part of Bob getting pissed off and storming out of the room and – There’s a man. On the other side of the room. Talking to a girl. Smiling. There are all kinds of smiles in this world, but some you memorise. Some you learn by heart. Words die in my throat. The people around me disappear. The music fades out like someone’s twisting the volume button down. He’s not gone in the next second. He’s still there. He’s smiling in a way that reaches his eyes – brown, a gorgeous brown, not that I can see it from here, but I remember, I still – nodding energetically, and then he laughs, bright and happy, a drink in his hand. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

day three › favorite book

And so I walk on stage because there is no other place for me to go. And the cheering doubles, triples as the thousands of fans see me, and I’ve never been so lost in my life. He’s gone. I’ve sent him away, but not before we destroyed each other. Like those smarter than us knew that we would. The stage lights illuminate me and give me a halo. And I take my place behind the microphone, where I will stand, where I am doomed to stand and privileged to stand, by myself, always by myself. Where I am never wrong, where I have never erred, my eyes flying over the rows of lifted arms, euphoric cries, devoted gazes. Where I am finally loved.

I wish I had the words to describe what it feels like to have The Followers come on. Brent first, followed by Spencer, and then Joe, and the crowd goes wild, explodes, erupts, but I hold my breath because no, no, that will not do, and the mic in the middle stands empty, and Joe’s already got his guitar wrapped around himself, and he strums a chord, flashing us a stunning smile and then we hear crash bang cymbal cymbal crash bang, and only then does the last quarter of The Followers arrive. It’s funny when you first see a person you’ve only seen pictures of, and then, suddenly, they appear in front of you, flesh and blood and breathing, ten rows ahead and centre stage, a bony wrist lifted in an awkward hello. And I can’t look away. Ryan’s tall and too thin and wearing a smart suit and he’s clean shaven, but he’s scruffy, somehow he just is, like a rough diamond, and he sings the first line, monotonous and doomed, and he sounds like a prophet. The crowd loses it. I don’t look away once.

posters → the heart rate of a mouse by anna green

I stay by the doorway, watching him play. His shoulder blades move as his fingers dance over the keys, peaceful and beautiful. He hasn’t switched on the lights, but an orange glow shines in from the street. The white bed sheet has looped around his waist. I must have fallen asleep, woken up in a dream. He doesn’t hear me crossing the room as he plays. The music woke me up in the first place. It’s classical music, Chopin, and he’s not just playing any piece by the Pole, but the one. The only piece of music that kept playing in my head for weeks after the crash: Nocturne No.2 in E flat. It doesn’t have the chilling effect on me that it once had. By playing it, he’s attaching the music to something else. To this moment instead. And I much prefer this moment. His fingers come to a graceful stop, gently resting on the keys. He stills like he stops existing when the music does. Ivory skin, ebony hair, and the shadows dance on the contours of his back. “Hey.” He starts and looks over his shoulder. “Hi. Shit, sorry if I woke you, I –” “I’m glad you did.” He smiles, looking embarrassed. “How long you been standing there?” He sounds shy, almost, his hands withdrawing from the keys. As I walk over, he reaches out to press a hand against my bare stomach, his thumb absently brushing the waistband of my boxers. “Long enough.” I brush stray hairs behind his ear. “You sound good.” “I’m really rusty.” “Could’ve fooled me. Move over.” He obeys, and I sit on the bench next to him, our bare shoulders pressing together.