zuropa_fit
Blue Crack Addict
I purposely left some of the details a bit vague but I hope you like it anyway. Those of you that know me can probably guess who it's about anyway. It's just a one-off, not intended to go anywhere else.
Disclaimer: Don't know the band, this never happened, yadda yadda yadda.
I watch you getting ready, offering suggestions sometimes, helping to make sure you look good. But not too good. But it’s too late. You look very good. Even though the boots would look better, I still say. Very good indeed. The room is strewn with clothes that all look pretty much the same if you ask me. You’ve tried on a total of six pairs of jeans and countless shirts, tees and button-ups. You’ve settled on a pair of jeans that’s just tight enough to be interesting without being ridiculous and this button up that looks like it was custom made for you. Sleeves rolled up or down? You do one of each and take turns standing to either side of the mirror. I sit in the chair in the corner, giggling at him on the inside. You decided to roll them up, past your elbows, so we can see your biceps almost. Perhaps I’ll wear that dress you bought, you know the one, just to try to stay apace.
I used to be jealous you know. Of the girls who were in the front row, dumbstruck grins plastered on their made up faces. I’d watch them watching you. And you have never been oblivious to them by any means either. And who could blame you? They’re beautiful.
They would come up to you after the show, not caring that you were all sweaty, I mean dripping, but they probably enjoyed it actually. And there was a time when I was right there, too. Not right there but close enough. And I’d work my way up, lay a hand on your back or sneak in a kiss before leaving for the night; just to make sure they knew. This was around the same time that I still helped you load in, helped carry your gear, sometimes even brought you a beer between songs. Remember that?
Some nights, during the set, some college boy would start talking to me, offer to buy me a drink. Sometimes I would take him up on it before letting it slip why I was there. And sometimes you’d notice, which always baffled me. How you could pay attention to what was happening on and off the stage I’ll never know. But it was flattering to know that you noticed, I will admit. I’d blush a little when you’d ask, trying to stay all casual “Who were you talking to up at the bar?”. I can’t say it didn’t make me feel good.
Now, if I’m there at all, I just linger in the back and watch. It’s cute really, how they never take their eyes off of you. How you can flash a grin back at them without losing a beat.
Of course right now, seeing you fret over how many shirt buttons to button, I giggle. You ask what and I say nothing. But I’m thinking “If only these girls could see what you looked like an hour ago.” Hair matted in sweaty clumps after being under a hat all day, stretched out tee, old cargo shorts with ripped hems. You slip the necklace over your head and the transformation is complete. You pace nervously for a few minutes before I politely suggest you join the boys and you can’t race out of the room fast enough, after a quick kiss on the cheek of course, sometimes a smack on the arse. “Have a good show.”
Tonight, you’re on fire. You look amazing and you sound even better. The show is perfect, beyond perfect. You guys are doing things up there you’ve never done before; stuff you’ve never gotten quite right, you’re nailing it and the crowd is loving it. You are not that man who I watched getting dressed at all. You are a rock star. I can’t help thinking that on a night like this, you rightfully belong to them, to the whole room. It’s expected of you. It’s good for the band. And, let’s face it, it’s all part of the rush. You love it.
That singer of yours is in rare form, telling bad jokes and wild stories and the crowd is eating out of the palm of his hand. Towards the end of the set he introduces the band and I can’t help but notice the girls’ reactions when he says your name. And at the end, the guitar has hardly finished reverberating its last chord when they’re at the side of the stage. A couple of them wait their turn, almost lurking, but several come up all together. One of them presses a piece of paper into your hand and you shove it into your back pocket without looking at it. I catch your eye and get a nod as I signal that I’m leaving. After a gig like that it’ll be a long night.
I don’t know what time it is when I hear you come into the room, trying to be quiet in a way only a man who’s had a few beers can. I can smell the booze and smoke from here and I know that if I make an attempt to say anything, I’ll be up for hours so I just roll over. I hear the shower start and the clink of your jewelry being placed on the top of your dresser before I fall back into sleep. I am only vaguely aware of you getting into the bed some time later, now smelling clean, even though when you lean over I can still smell smoke under toothpaste. “You looked beautiful tonight.” he whispers as he pulls my body to his. “I love that dress.” The last thing I remember thinking that night is “I don’t know how he does it. But I love that he does.”
The next morning I’m cleaning up the kitchen when you stumble in, wearing ratty old boxers that by all rights should have been tossed. Your hair once again has a mind of its own and there’s a deep crease across your face from the seam of your pillow. I can’t help but grin. “Shut up.” he says, looking at his reflection in the oven, trying to make his hair behave. He thinks I’m making fun of him. What I don’t tell him is that he can’t imagine how lucky I feel to get to see this. They can have the rock star; I’ll take the man. He may have been theirs for a couple hours last night but he’s all mine. Eat your heart out, girls.
Disclaimer: Don't know the band, this never happened, yadda yadda yadda.
I watch you getting ready, offering suggestions sometimes, helping to make sure you look good. But not too good. But it’s too late. You look very good. Even though the boots would look better, I still say. Very good indeed. The room is strewn with clothes that all look pretty much the same if you ask me. You’ve tried on a total of six pairs of jeans and countless shirts, tees and button-ups. You’ve settled on a pair of jeans that’s just tight enough to be interesting without being ridiculous and this button up that looks like it was custom made for you. Sleeves rolled up or down? You do one of each and take turns standing to either side of the mirror. I sit in the chair in the corner, giggling at him on the inside. You decided to roll them up, past your elbows, so we can see your biceps almost. Perhaps I’ll wear that dress you bought, you know the one, just to try to stay apace.
I used to be jealous you know. Of the girls who were in the front row, dumbstruck grins plastered on their made up faces. I’d watch them watching you. And you have never been oblivious to them by any means either. And who could blame you? They’re beautiful.
They would come up to you after the show, not caring that you were all sweaty, I mean dripping, but they probably enjoyed it actually. And there was a time when I was right there, too. Not right there but close enough. And I’d work my way up, lay a hand on your back or sneak in a kiss before leaving for the night; just to make sure they knew. This was around the same time that I still helped you load in, helped carry your gear, sometimes even brought you a beer between songs. Remember that?
Some nights, during the set, some college boy would start talking to me, offer to buy me a drink. Sometimes I would take him up on it before letting it slip why I was there. And sometimes you’d notice, which always baffled me. How you could pay attention to what was happening on and off the stage I’ll never know. But it was flattering to know that you noticed, I will admit. I’d blush a little when you’d ask, trying to stay all casual “Who were you talking to up at the bar?”. I can’t say it didn’t make me feel good.
Now, if I’m there at all, I just linger in the back and watch. It’s cute really, how they never take their eyes off of you. How you can flash a grin back at them without losing a beat.
Of course right now, seeing you fret over how many shirt buttons to button, I giggle. You ask what and I say nothing. But I’m thinking “If only these girls could see what you looked like an hour ago.” Hair matted in sweaty clumps after being under a hat all day, stretched out tee, old cargo shorts with ripped hems. You slip the necklace over your head and the transformation is complete. You pace nervously for a few minutes before I politely suggest you join the boys and you can’t race out of the room fast enough, after a quick kiss on the cheek of course, sometimes a smack on the arse. “Have a good show.”
Tonight, you’re on fire. You look amazing and you sound even better. The show is perfect, beyond perfect. You guys are doing things up there you’ve never done before; stuff you’ve never gotten quite right, you’re nailing it and the crowd is loving it. You are not that man who I watched getting dressed at all. You are a rock star. I can’t help thinking that on a night like this, you rightfully belong to them, to the whole room. It’s expected of you. It’s good for the band. And, let’s face it, it’s all part of the rush. You love it.
That singer of yours is in rare form, telling bad jokes and wild stories and the crowd is eating out of the palm of his hand. Towards the end of the set he introduces the band and I can’t help but notice the girls’ reactions when he says your name. And at the end, the guitar has hardly finished reverberating its last chord when they’re at the side of the stage. A couple of them wait their turn, almost lurking, but several come up all together. One of them presses a piece of paper into your hand and you shove it into your back pocket without looking at it. I catch your eye and get a nod as I signal that I’m leaving. After a gig like that it’ll be a long night.
I don’t know what time it is when I hear you come into the room, trying to be quiet in a way only a man who’s had a few beers can. I can smell the booze and smoke from here and I know that if I make an attempt to say anything, I’ll be up for hours so I just roll over. I hear the shower start and the clink of your jewelry being placed on the top of your dresser before I fall back into sleep. I am only vaguely aware of you getting into the bed some time later, now smelling clean, even though when you lean over I can still smell smoke under toothpaste. “You looked beautiful tonight.” he whispers as he pulls my body to his. “I love that dress.” The last thing I remember thinking that night is “I don’t know how he does it. But I love that he does.”
The next morning I’m cleaning up the kitchen when you stumble in, wearing ratty old boxers that by all rights should have been tossed. Your hair once again has a mind of its own and there’s a deep crease across your face from the seam of your pillow. I can’t help but grin. “Shut up.” he says, looking at his reflection in the oven, trying to make his hair behave. He thinks I’m making fun of him. What I don’t tell him is that he can’t imagine how lucky I feel to get to see this. They can have the rock star; I’ll take the man. He may have been theirs for a couple hours last night but he’s all mine. Eat your heart out, girls.
Hi zu. I love this. An interesting insight to what could be their 'other' lives. Nice one. 
I do love the way you get right into their heads.
