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him I’m here. He says to come
around back. He’ll let me in.
Glad you could make it. Quade
gives me another hug, and this
time it’s longer, warmer. Come
on. It’s just about showtime.
I follow him backstage. Three
guys, all dressed in personalized
leather and piercings, give Quade
a nod. You can hang here, okay?
“No problem.” I grab a stool
as the band takes the stage,
launches a hard metal song
guaranteed to blow eardrums.
Not my favorite music,
but they play it well, one
song crashing into the next,
Quade leading the charge
with his bass. By the time
they take a break, my ears
pound and my throat is parched.
Quade comes up, puts his arm
around my shoulder. Thirsty?
The best I can do is nod.
Me, too. I’ll get us drinks.
What’s your pleasure?
[Dangerous question.] “Um…” I’ve
never been much of a drinker,
and I’m not even sure if he’s offering
alcohol. “Whatever you’re having.”
