It could be any club now. It didn't matter anymore. The patrons sway, pogo and mosh until they all fall down. The same dusky odor of Acapulco Gold entwines in the roots of her hair and threads of her psyche.
She tunnels through legions of sweaty, punk lemmings up to the bar and orders the usual. With a Coors in her right hand and a screwdriver in the left, she turns to watch him on stage.
He's in full rocker mode; legs spread apart to better endure the shockwaves of music, torso bent forward over his guitar & dreads dancing over the strings, swaying in-and-out of the melody he's plucking fast-and-furious with attenuated fingers.
Her gaze wanders over to the cadre of girlfriends stage left of the band. She questions why they keep coming. They always stand in the same cliquish formation.
Each girlfriend's eyes harden into onyx chips as her pupil's dialate with rage when another girl flirts with the band. They white-knuckle their beers, stamping their heels just a little bit harder to the tempo of the music. Their voluptuous lower lips quiver with suppressed rage, then disappear to echo the distinct, disapproving line of their bodies.
Seeking out his face, she wonders whether his expression looks the same as when they fuck. The moment he's buried inside her, just at the event horizon. She's seen his face; tortured and atavistic, then blank and impersonal as he empties himself.
Why does she keep coming to every gig? It's not like he pays attention to her. He's too busy with sound checks, tuning his guitar, chatting with A & R folks. He barely gives her a nod when she hands off his beer, which he sets on top of an amp and swigs between sets.
His head tips back and the dreads sweep off his face. The veins in his temples and throat are rising with the increased beat and his exertions. His eyes flash excitedly; his smile is pure, joyous as moves his whole soul into the primacy of the music and the screams of the crowd.
The realization she was never his muse-but just a girlfriend-hits her like a lightening bolt. The screwdriver fall out of her hands, spilling onto the floor. A passing waitress tells her off, but she isn't listening. She's too busy trying to keep her mouth open, hands relaxed and pupils undialated.
She become less his lover, but more than a groupie as she watches him surrender to his real passion, cursing her weakness.
She's not brave enough to walk away.