december 2000, maybe?
Two chairs in the middle of a room, facing one another. He sits across from me, our knees meeting in the middle, our positions and posture speaking to an intimacy we rarely share. The show is over, the lights are up, and the crowd has scattered. Our night has nearly met its end, and those who remain are busy. They are hauling away equipment, stacking chairs, cleaning, and closing out the bar - all things that, in retrospect, we should have been helping with.
He is many things: a bandmate, the husband of a close friend, and the subject of a brief, ill-advised crush my freshman year of high school. He is not, however, a confidant. At least not under normal circumstances.
We’ve been chatting like this for the better part of twenty minutes when he leans even closer to me, long fingers steepled before him, cheeks ruddy. The last time we held a conversation this intimate, he wanted my opinion on wedding bands. I hold my breath, unsure of what he might say. With him, it could be anything. The secrets of the universe. An exceedingly stupid joke.
And when he is only inches from my face:
“I kind of like the new Madonna album. Don’t tell anyone.”
3:26 p.m. - 2024-02-28