A concert, a concert, a concert. Date night. Crisp, hot pizzas pulled from the ovens, served with sticky cokes and cheap red wine. We side side by side in the booth downtown, watch all the football fans laugh and eat and drink their beers.
Their team loses, but everyone is in ok spirits. An exodus of blue and green and white as the final clock winds down.
After dinner we walk through the mist to the Showbox, wait in line under the dripping sky. The crowd snakes around the corner, girls in leather jackets and black boots, winged eyeliner and straightened hair.
The girl in front of me has a thin French braid and a plume of smoke coming from her lips, her best friend wears a crop top and high-waist jeans. Across the street, the neon signs of Pike Place Market paint the ground in a wash of pink.
The line moves forward. We move inside.
Standing room only and we are in the second row. For once I don’t have to struggle to see. The opening act is all heavy beats and guttural noises and it makes me want to put my hands on the ground. Down dog and crow in the back of the room. I’m sure they would notice, but would anyone care?
Then Angus and Julia Stone take the stage. The girls behind me swoon for the siblings in equal amounts.
Oh my god, she’s so gorgeous. Look at his muscles. Look at her hair.
And I imagine from the stage we are a blur of upturned faces. Maybe she catches someone’s eye. Maybe she’s singing to the back of the room.
The guitar starts, and the bass and the piano. Feel the thump in my belly and I can’t help but move.
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