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Well, then. Impressive line of his trousers. Sparkly trousers, no less. They were paired with a semi-matching boxy jacket. Actually, not matching at all. The blacks were different. No one else probably noticed, but color was my world. And the pants were onyx-black while the jacket was decidedly warmer. His silky white shirt was half open. Something metal flashed against his skin. I popped off a few more pictures.
Two.
Three.
Four.
All stuffed into my bag in an endless repetition.
Little pieces of the whole.
Maybe I’d tack them together on a black canvas with smudged chalk.
I’d name it Neil Diamond.
I smirked as I took one more shot of the purple guitar strap that slashed across his back. Heck, I didn’t even hear the song he was singing.
It was moody, that was about all I could comprehend.
My entire world had become this dude and I had to get each angle. The microphone stand was forgotten in the ambient purple and glitter smorgasbord. I swallowed a giggle—or maybe it was a moan—no one could hear me, I was pretty sure—as I took one last shot of the bulge he was sporting. Trick of the light
?
Maybe.
The light flicked from soft purple to blinding white and I squinted against the change.
The room was silent save for the stomp of the singer’s foot. I dropped into an crouch. I didn’t even remember standing to take those pictures.
The camera kicked at me, demanding film.
“Fuck, fuck.” I dug into the bottom of my bag. No cartridges. I couldn’t have used them all up. “No, no.”
I was afraid to look away. Afraid the magic would be gone. Glitz and glamour hugged the man from ankle to neck. Even his hair was a riot of curls and artifice. They coiled around his ears and down to his shoulders to flip up at the ends. Soft, where the rest of him was glam.
Except for his shoes.
Ancient. Battered.
Dear God, the perfection of it. I had to have it.
When he stomped once more, the sole of his shoe flapped. Duct tape peeled away. Oh, he’d hidden it well enough with…was that marker? Sharpie, perhaps?
I shoved my newer camera into my bag and unearthed my ancient Polaroid. It was clunkier and the button stuck. It was persnickety. That was why Matilda was my favorite—and yeah, I named my cameras.
My finger shook a little. I took a long, slow breath to even out my jangling nerves.
The undeniable hatched gray tape was coming apart at the edge of his boot.
And still he stomped.
The dichotomy made my spine zing. I recognized the feeling. I’d followed it down more than a few rabbit holes since I’d left my sleepy little town of Turnbull, NY. Every time resulted in magic. The first time had turned into a sculpture that had been the centerpiece of my first amateur show when I was a teen. The last time had become a mural in a theater downtown.
This would be a painting.
A wall-sized canvas that would show every detail.
The boos from the crowd finally dented my tunnel vision. Still, the singer stomped and sang his song. He closed his eyes and sang louder. It was as if he’d left the freaking building in his mind. He was locked-in and determined.
