Read part one of the story
Or maybe I should start with me, back then, late twenties and still without a real job, making do with help from my mom and dad for “college” and stocking groceries overnight from Sunday to Thursday. I had the t-shirts and the blue jeans, too; we all did, I guess, although I didn’t wear things ironically back then, not trucker hats and especially not t-shirts. I wish I still had some of the t-shirts that got turned into rags during those summers, I could probably find some online if I really felt like it, even-cheaper knockoffs of things that already were made to fall apart; I might get a couple of wears out of some of them, but just putting the shirts back on wouldn’t help me recognize myself anymore.
Because that was the me that fell in love with her from the third row, as it were, even though none of the places she played had any seats; most of them were doing well to have walls and ceilings that looked like they could pass a fire inspection. Because it was love if anything is ever love these days, and the fact that it happened over both the physical distance that I was standing from the stage and the infinitely greater distance created by the fact the she didn’t have a fucking clue who I was, had never laid eyes on me in her life, that wasn’t something that I thought about much. It was just the reality, but it didn’t always have to be, and since my general life plan seemed to be based mostly around a lot of waiting for things to happen, I think some part of me was expecting an encounter over brunch, or at a coffee shop or record store, or any and all of the other clichéd opportunities that I could possibly picture for that thing that was going on for me to move out of my head and into the world.
But none of that helped very much when it happened.
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