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I was already excited for any more time I could spend with Stig.
Chapter Eight – Stig
My closet was almost too big. The sheer bounty it allotted was nearly more than the human mind could hold, even when you counted its individual bits of data, once committed to memory but deleted without notice.
Ordinarily, I didn’t give it much thought. My career didn’t allow me much in the way of choice, including when it came to my wardrobe. I never really cared what I wore, but the crowd sure did, and therefore my resulting style was often similar to that which was sported by Ragnar and Varg.
We weren’t really going for a uniform, as we were all too individualistic for that. But a semblance of brand recognition and consistency rarely went amiss.
People had their own ideas of what we were like, and we did our best not to disappoint them. Image could count for a lot, if handled right. This was particularly true in Metal, starting with Kiss in the 70s and going all the way to Ghost.
Today, taking the weather into account, I opted for cargo pants and a soft cotton T-shirt, both in light gray. That was about as light as I ever got with most of my clothes from before the move, Norwegian weather being such that one could comfortably wear black throughout most of the year.
I didn’t usually put so much thought into what I wore, preferring to focus on the maybe fifteen percent of things that actually matter in life. But tonight, I just wanted everything to go perfectly with Holly.
I’d never known anyone like her and would do everything I could to help keep her happy. It was impossible to be completely responsible for another’s happiness, or even their well-being, although God knew I had tried. But still, I at least wanted to do my part to put a smile on Holly’s face and some dampness in her panties.
After splashing on some aftershave, for a nice surprise later when I moved in for a kiss, it was off to the races.
I was early, which was a bit of an achievement considering that I was often late. But that was how into Holly I was, that I was already changing my ways for her.
Checking my watch for probably the fiftieth time, I got into the ticket line. The theater was an old-fashioned type, with no automated ticket machines to be found. They would have clashed with the 1970s Grindhouse atmosphere in any case.
Having moved on a bit from its initial fair and gaining a reputation as more of an Art House by the mid-1990s, the theater liked to keep up its air of danger— at least according to the background information I could find online. It was always a good idea to know where you were going.
“You’re back,” Talia, the ticket-taker, said.
I really did love this theater.
“Yet again.”
“Seems to be habit-forming,” she said, her lip-ring shifting with her smile.
“Let’s hope so.”
“One?”
“Two,” I corrected.
“Nice,” she said, with a sly wink.
Tickets in hand, there wasn’t much to do but wait. And so I did, while pacing the pavement with The Cure’s “Lovesong” playing on my headphones.
There was a notion among contrarians that CDs were as good as vinyl. But that was a notion that was contradicted by actual science. And alas, I didn’t have access to either one at the moment. Even though digital files weren’t anywhere close to the real deal, they had to do when I didn’t have access to my player.
Vinyl simply was not practical for pacing purposes. That was likely the thinking of the bands that released material on both digital and vinyl— a pattern that Suspicious Activity Records had been following since around 2010.
Our demo was on CD but that was more a matter of cost— desperate times calling for desperate measures and all that.
Suddenly I felt a soft hand on my arm, and I turned around with a start.
“Hey, there,” I said, smiling when I saw that it was Holly.
“Lost in the music, were you?” Holly asked, with a chuckle.
“Yes,” I confessed.
“Nothing to be ashamed of. What’s on?”
“The Cure.”
“Nice.”
It was so great to see her pretty face and curvy body that I gave her a kiss on the lips right away. She responded passionately, making my heart beat faster.
I wished we could continue indulging in our physical affections, but we had to get inside soon if we wanted to be able to choose seats.
I took her hand, and we followed the herd through the bright red door and into the darkened world beyond.
“Have you ever seen Godard before?” she asked.
“Only online. There are plenty of movies in Norway, but they tend to be more domestic. There is more of an emphasis on music and theater.”
“Like plays?”
“Yes, exactly, plays— despite the relatively low population. It’s one of those quirks of history that the majority of Henrik Ibsen’s works were originally published and performed in Danish, which was much more common in the late 19th century.”
