I think about it for a second too long.
“No worries,” he says. “I’ll see you later. Have fun at the street fair.” He turns into the crowd, but I don’t let him disappear.
With a quick step and a shuffle I’m in the stream too, right behind him yelling, “I’m coming. I’ll come. I’ll go with you.” I’m not sure he hears me because the current seems to be separating us. I keep pressing on, using my cone of corn as a shield. I think I’ve lost him entirely when I feel something strong softly grab my wrist. It’s a hand. Pulling me through the crowd. I nearly stumble at the sudden surge of speed, when I smash chest-first into Martin. He’s got a firm grip on my left wrist and he says, “Stick with me, through the crowd,” and then takes off with me in tow.
The world is a blur as we make our way up the street. Giant speakers are blaring incredible guitar music, and overhead lights are orbiting spots of color on the crowd, which has mostly stopped moving and has started bouncing instead. The gentle squeeze of Martin’s hand around my wrist is captivating as I brush against his shoulder.
He pulls me into a spot with a little elbow room, lets go and says something. I can’t hear what he says, but his smile is transfixing and he’s pointing at the stage. I notice now that a guitarist is center stage with a band of other players and the sliding up and down the neck of his instrument is matching the music that fills the space.
The rhythm is intoxicating. The crowd is bouncing and the world becomes a blur of joy and rhythm and people. It’snot crowded in the claustrophobic sense I expected from a community concert at The Center. It’s alive, it breathes, it brings us all together. A stranger brushes against me, forcing me into Martin’s side. Martin looks over, beaming and presses back playfully. His arm flings around my shoulders momentarily while the music surges and we sway back and forth together with the crowd, swimming in the orbiting blobs of light.
By the fourth song, we are a single mass of joy, Martin and I and the crowd. Swinging and dancing and spinning and smiling. It is alive. It’s charged. And I am lost in it. Time seems to vanish. I watch Martin as much as I watch the band. They are the same, lost in the sheer loudness and chaos of this perfect moment.
The song ends and the tone shifts. The drumming softens, and the guitar switches from twangs and slides to something more plucky and smooth. The lights stop moving and everything turns hues of green and blue.
“Are you having a good time?” Martin leans in. I can actually hear him, and I find myself breathing in the woody aroma of his aftershave.
“This is pretty great,” I whisper.
“Say again?” he says, pointing to his ear, tilting his head toward me. The crowd around us is swaying differently. People have turned from the stage to face each other and sway in a whole new motion as they wrap up in each other’s arms.
I turn to repeat myself, when the crush of people moves in, pressing me into Martin. Chest to chest, thigh to thigh. We are also swaying, and then stop. I feel his breath on my ear. I feel his eyelash brush my temple. I realize we’re close enough that he could probably hear me now, but I find no words. Time freezes, or speeds up. I can’t tell. I just keep thinking, “one moment, one moment.” He turns his face slightly and we make eye contact. A quick blink and eye contact again. This is a new kind of soul-lock. I never want it to stop. I feel my spine go molten and I lookat his lips. Then back to his eyes. And back again. His gaze never leaves mine, and I feel his breathing slow. Someone presses into him from behind and we move even closer, our knees and chests together as one. I close my eyes and begin to memorize the feel of our chests breathing together.
I realize I have no idea what to do with my hands as they just hang there awkwardly. He reaches down and grabs them, his thumbs sending an electric pulse through the top of each hand, his fingers in my palms. My breath catches. And then he slowly steps back, eyes on the concrete below us. I think my eyes are pleading when he looks up, still holding both my hands and he says softly, “Sorry,” then turns to face the stage again, dropping my hands.
Time begins moving at hyper-speed and I need to say something. I need to express something. I need this moment to never end. What comes out instead is, “This is a great concert!” I’m defeated, and I can’t look at him. His hand is right there, nearly brushing mine. I can grab it and hold on. I can interlock our fingers and smile at him. I can, but then what? What would happen after that? I can’t face that moment. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
So I do nothing. I mean I melt into goo inside, but other than that I do nothing. Moments are too hard to treasure. They are much easier to let slip away.
And this one does.
The music picks up again and we sway with the crowd and smile at each other and truly enjoy the music, but I never really know what to do with the gooey, melty mess I have become inside. So I smile and sway. And brush my hand against his occasionally and melt some more with each jolt of electricity it brings.
The beat of the concert picks up again, the splotches of revolving light returning, but I’m not sure I’m fully present. I keep trying to steal glances at Martin, trying to see inside his mind. I do my best to try to enjoy the rest of the concert and I plant a giant smile on my face, but it doesn’t flourish there.
It isn’t long before we’re celebrating the encore, the blobs of light are the brightest they’ve been and the crowd is most alive. And then the street lights come back up and we are transported back into the packed street as the crowd dissipates. It’s the first time I’ve actually had the space to see Martin, and I realize that he’s wearing his western boots, tucked neatly into the jeans that are doing great things for his thighs. It dislocates my brain in a strange way.
He strides along slowly beside me as we make our way up the street to wherever our vehicles are, somewhere we never actually declare.
“I’m glad I ran into you tonight,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
I watch his hair fall back into place. “Me too.”
He tucks his hands into his jean pockets, only a few knuckles deep, and then takes them out again. It feels like he’s deep in thought as we make our way down the street and the density of the crowd dissipates, making the sound of his boots on the pavement audible. “There’s something I was hoping to talk with you about,” he starts, then looks at me briefly.
“Sure. What’s up?” A lump grows in my throat.
“I was wondering if…” he stops and starts again. “Would you be…” He can’t look at me, and then he does and won’t look away.
I suddenly stop walking, turning to him. “What is it?” I search his face for the thoughts he can’t express.
He huffs and laughs a nervous laugh, wiping one palm over his mouth and down his chin. “I just wanted to…” Hestops again mid-sentence. He’s searching for something in my expression, and I can only hope it’s there. “I really…” he huffs again, turning away, brushing a hand through his hair again.
We both stand there, avoiding eye contact mostly, as stragglers make their way past us in groups, some clinging together laughing.
Suddenly there’s a commotion behind me and I hear my name. I turn to see two people catching up to us, one of them waving a one-arm wave, saying my name: “Liam!”
“Matthew?” I find myself asking until their growing proximity answers. “Matthew!” I declare, “and…” I can’t remember the name of his companion, but it’s one of the engineers from the bar the other night.
