A tap of the microphone, some unnecessarily loud feedback, and people screaming announced the start. That’s what I heard when I first saw her. She was petite, white to the point of translucency, with raging red hair and the most confident look on anyone’s face I had ever seen.
The others noticed. Band mates elbowed me. “Go talk to her.”
“Never.” I replied. The thought seemed ridiculous. Why in the world would I do that?
“You are just like her here, a musician about to play.” I heard someone say.
“No, I’m not”, I thought to myself. I was a waitress who got lucky playing her highschool instrument. I still waited tables when the tour season was over…quite a humbling experience might I add.
I watched her as she walked to the restroom, and felt myself rising to follow.
I heard a burst of teasing laughter behind me and shot the finger above my head back at them. They laughed harder.
I walked slowly. I stopped by the food bar and passed the disgusting looking pate, picked up a slice of tomato and mozzarella, (I was a vegetarian then) and waited.
I walked into the bathroom and was greeted by a whirl of a toilet flushing. I turned on the water, reached for some soap, and pressed my trembling hands together. “What the crap am I doing in here?”, I thought.
Just then she walked out of the stall singing, shot me a smile, and a brief hello in her accent. I smiled back, told her I couldn’t wait for her set. I was such an admirer of her music.
I was suddenly aware that I had been washing my hands for an inordinately long period of time. I shut the water off.
She handed me a paper towel, thanked me, and wished me a good show.
I watched her leave the bathroom and cupped my flushed face in my hands. I laughed at my silly starstruckedness, and stared in the mirror. Yes, I’ll have a good show.