I feel like a stalker.
Well, not really, but I can't help but imagine that my girlfriend will soon wander by, and wonder whether I qualify as such.
Without benefit of Laura this Friday evening, after a weirdly stressful day at work (more of which anon, or, perhaps, in a future post, I find myself at the 360, poluting the patio, where a man (or woman) can still smoke without fear of reprimand or legal sanction.
(Almost) a voyeur's paradise, the beautiful and those who aspire to it, flow by like pure, glacial water (or so it seems, when I remember to look up, from my Globe, or my notebook), fresh from the doomed face of a dying glacier.
Young legs, bellies and breats, parade before me, whether or not they know that much of the audience is made up of hideious old men.
Perhaps an hour ago, I looked up to see what must havbe been 50
kids young adults on the south side of Queen, waiting for a break in the traffic.
As it seemed they must sooner or later, they crossed, and massed directly in front of me.
And quickly, they passed through the door to my right - same venue, different door.
I leaned over to read the sandwichboard beyond the wrought-iron fence separating street from (former) Legion Hall, white chalk on black board.
read that chalk.
The feel of the crowd was that of a bunch of nice
kids young people who like loud music.
And I thought, "Shit! This might be the show Laura's going to tonight!"
If she told me the name of the band she wanted to see, I have forgotten it.
But the cohort that flowed across the streest was Laura's age, the
kids the people going into the back room of the 360 were her peers.
Is Laura among them?
Well, time will tell - if I am not peering in the basement, or concentrating on this notebook; and if Laura happens to notice me sitting on the sidelines before she walks into the show (there can only be so many nerds outside, right?) - perhaps we will see one another.
Meanwhile, my hand-writing deteriorates, as the volume of alcohol is consumed.
My neurons withdraw from cilial connections, breaking strands in the web of consciousness.
What will I say if I am right, and she sees me, a (barely) functional alcoholic, inching toward the shore of Queen and ...
... and, well hell: I can't even read my hand-writing.
There was something about oblivion, but I'm damned if I know what I was talking about.
Probably time for be ...