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.