I’m meticulous about the details — the deep, baritone groove of your voice; the lean line of your hip; your abiding love of bad puns; the way you dip your head instead of saying good-bye. These are my favourites. These star in every fantasy.
Sometimes I imagine showing up at one of your gigs. No warning. I’m wearing skinny jeans and knee-high boots and an iridescent green blouse that makes my eyes look blue. You spot me half-way through a song. Stumble over a high-note, just a bit. Nobody else notices. You finish, take a sip of the beer that’s on the floor by your stool, and dedicate the next tune to an old friend.
I tap my hand against my heart twice and smile.
When your set is over, you come and sit next to me at the bar. You give me that loose, lived-in grin — the one you flashed when we were walking down Queen Street the night you played the Rivoli for the first time, and you were so pleased with yourself you slung an arm around my shoulder. I go hot and cold, like I did that night.
We talk, and drink. I’m witty and charming and smart, and we both know it. I’ve never seen that particular look on your face before.
When the bar closes, you walk me home. I smile, and blush a little when you offer your arm. I know you’re joking, but it thrills me, and I take it.
Don’t tell anyone that — it doesn’t look good on a modern woman. But it’s the truth. I like being this close to you. I like feeling you breathe and smelling the cigarette smoke that clings to your clothes. The casual way you tuck your hand over mine. It lights up every nerve in my body.
But let’s keep that between us.
Tina Siegel is a reader, writer, animal lover, and pop culture junkie who hasn’t entirely abandoned her dreams of literary success.
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