I am backstage, during a high school production. It is hot, stuffy. A piano plays somewhere, loud swelling notes that (however unlikely) echo in the humidity. I follow the sound and find you, in the locker room at the public pool. The chlorine and moisture sink into my pores. You are faceless, nameless. In my consciousness I have no clue who you are. But here, behind the stage, you are someone important to me. I don't know who.

You sit behind a tangle of pipes, pounding the keys as though they are your last hope. Oddly enough, you are playing Leila, a song you have always hated. Something wells up inside of me, it could be love. It chokes me, and I reach blindly in your direction, grasping at your hands, I can't see. Your fingers ignore mine and nimbly finger the piano.

I can't kiss you, you tell me.

I start to heave, dry sobs that hurt my head, sweaty and shaking.

Leila, got me on my knees, Leila.
Begging darling, please, Leila...

You play as though I'm not there and behind the cold music I hear applause as the cast takes their final bows.