Memories Pt. 22

dead of winter, the Horseshoe tavern

It was a Tuesday and we didn't have anything to do. Heard about the new arts & crafts band Young Galaxy from a website or two and they were playing a free show on queen.

We bundled up and went down.

The Horseshoe was pretty empty and we threw our winter coats in the corner; grabbed a beer and listened to the other bands on the bill.

It wasn't until very late that the band we came to see came on the stage. We were both tired and didn't have much more money for beer. I had to work the next day, but didn't want to disappoint you.

They introduced themselves and then dove right in to a song we had never heard. At some concerts it takes a little while for the crowd and band to jive, but not that night.

We were leaning up against a pillar, me standing behind you. We both were en rapt, listening to a wall of sound that was oh so much more than a combination of its parts.

As you did many times since, you reached back and made sure I was still there. Touching my leg and keeping your hand there, for reassurance and closeness and especially the connection. You did that a lot at concerts and I loved it every time. Making sure I knew you were around and that you loved sharing the experience with me. It made me melt and puff out my chest.

I would instinctively touch you back, placing my hand on your hip, where it fit so well, and holding it there or brushing my thigh up against your bum. Anything to let you know I, too, was in that moment. With you.

I would often try my best to whisper something in your ear, but you'd often not hear. Ear plugs and loud music brushing my words off like pollen in a breeze. Landing somewhere unseen.

Concerts with you meant more to me than the music and show. They were times where we two became one in a room full of strangers, doing something we both loved with the one we loved.

A shared experience that we could smile about and relive later, when we were old and gray.