If anyone asked me about my definition of unpredictability, I would surely think about that evening's events. Yet, no words could be uttered. Because what happened that night shall stay between the two shameless creatures participating, and those who seek desires unseen. And by the latter I mean you, dear readers.
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The audience of a concert hall was almost full, though the seat beside me was still waiting for its owner to arrive. I was looking around nervously, my palms were sweating, my heart was beating fast.
A tall lady in her early thirties entered my row. She smiled at me politely and sat right next to me.
"Thanks for selling me the ticket. I already lost all hope to see him live," she said, unknitting her richly patterned dress.
I nodded, not a slightest glimpse of interest on my face. I couldn't stop all the intrusive thoughts going through my head, screaming that there should have been another woman in her place.
"I'm Anita by the way. It's so nice to meet you."
She reached her hand towards me.
A little panicked, I rubbed my hand into the trousers I wore to get rid of the sweat, and squeezed her slim palm.
"Max."
Uneasy look on my face did nothing to her enthusiasm, as she was still trying to catch my attention.
"How long have you known his music?" she pointed towards the stage.
"Oh umm... eight years or something. Quite some time. And you?"
Not that I was curious. My eyes were nervously tracing other people in the background, I couldn't wait for the performance to start, so that stilted talk would end.
"Yeah, something like that. Maybe a little longer. It feels unreal to see him tonight, I'm so excited! Are you going to Old Gentleman after the show? Have you seen this thread?"
"You mean the fan meeting? I'm not sure, I don't know anyone going."
"Come on" she poked me lightly with her elbow. "You know me, it's a good start, isn't it? We plan to wait backstage and ask him to join. He sometimes does that after his concerts. You wouldn't like to miss it, right?"
I raised my eyebrows. It would certainly be interesting to meet the man in person. I didn't feel any sudden urge to socialize, yet crossing paths with the artist could brighten the evening a little.
"If that's the case, I'll reconsider," my answer was served with a little smile.
And then the lights dimmed, a loud applause echoed in the hall, as our long awaited soloist entered the stage. With guitar in one hand, he waved towards the audience. He looked fine that evening. A slim man in his late thirties, or early forties, in a striped woolen shirt with blue braces resting on his torso.
From the third row I was in, I could very well see his mature looking face. His eyes were blue and sorrowful, even with a smile covering his lips. These were the eyes of the saddest man on earth, I thought. I wondered what he must have gone through to emanate with this endless desolation.
All I knew was that his earliest songs were created in a collaboration with some girl, with whom he used to perform. At one point they split up in toxic circumstances. A heartache of that breakup never fully stopped hunting him as he progressed with his artistic career. And even now he looked like a wreck of a man, aged not because of his physics, but because of the emotion he bore all these years.
The whole concert was like this - full of melancholy. His music made my soul cry. Well, my soul was already crying due to personal matters, but now it was crying in a different way.
The room was filled with sounds of pensiveness. The atmosphere was evoking some lingering feelings, bringing back the memories long-gone. Waves of nostalgia and longing were going through us, as we sat in awe, singing along the chorus lyrics.
When he was performing, he was fully in the zone, focusing on each chord, each note sung. Sweat streamed down his forehead, wrinkled in dynamic expression, as he kept on pulling the strings. There was something pure about him performing, something animalistic. I kept staring at his agile fingers maneuvering over the frets, mesmerized. His hands looked big and tough-skinned, he was gripping the guitar's neck as if it was the last performance in his life.
I could feel a strange attraction, a connection coming from common experiences me and him had. He did not know me, yet I felt as if the parts of our existence were interfusing. I left the concert hall speechless, with a fading feeling of belonging, anchored right there and then.
I followed Anita's footsteps to the backstage, now with no second-thoughts. I had to see the guy once more.
Anita stayed surprisingly, yet conveniently, quiet after the show had ended. I noticed her eyes were a bit swollen, she must have cried. She looked pretty, even with her cheeks puffy-red and watery eyes. Maybe in another life I would have even asked her out. She seemed easy-going and cheerful, besides we had similar taste in music, and that was already something, considering the low popularity of that particular indie genre.
There, in another life, I would have given her a tissue to dry her eyes, maybe even borrowed her my jacket, so she could take cover from a chill night May air. But at that moment, I just stood there in silence with my hands hidden in pockets.
Other people were voraciously discussing the performance, humming their favorite songs, exchanging experiences. And when he finally left the building after half an hour or so, the whole group cheered and clapped.
He smiled with his eyes sad as ever, bowed, talked a little with the bravest people in the crowd, and stated in his sharp Irish accent "Are you guys asking for another song? I got the dope on my ig that we were just going to the bar. If I knew you wanted a song, I wouldn't go out at all."
He smiled daringly, his eyes shining brightly. He was visibly enjoying all the attention. In the end he made a pacifying gesture towards his fans gathered around the exit ramp.
"Guys, guys... Okay. I'll play a song" he paused. "At the bar!"
The crowd applauded ferociously.
"But only if" he raised his index finger, "only if you find me a guitar there. I left all my equipment for the team to pack. Tomorrow I have a flight to Berlin, so we're not partying till morning, folks."
"We'll see about that," someone shouted.
"Come on man, we're going to the Old Gentleman, I'm sure they have some instruments there" some other guy motioned the artist, and we all followed.
We were a loud group of people, filled with joy of meeting their idol in person, singing along the streets of the old town.
I could see he enjoyed himself in our companionship. He didn't feel distant at all, and was far from inaccessible. There was no trace of superiority you could see in other popular people. If his fandom was any bigger, such carefree meetings would be impossible to execute.
We arrived at the bar, occupying a separate room that someone from the group had reserved prior. Soon a guitar was found and brought to the table. He played again in his usual passionate manner. The whole room was singing. I couldn't help but join, sitting at the end of the table, right next to my new colleague Anita.
The place was vibrating with happiness, enthusiasm. It was contrasting well with the sorrowful energy of the song played, dynamic yet sad. And my heart was dominated by the latter. With each passing second, each sung verse, I could feel the longing rooting deeper and deeper within my soul. To the point I couldn't take it anymore.
As soon as he stopped playing, and the crowd proceeded to fast-talk him for another piece, I stood from the table to find the bar. My head was a bit dizzy, though I didn't drink anything yet. Maybe it wasn't the greatest idea to drown my bad mood in the alcohol, but it was the only logical plan coming to my mind at that moment.
I ordered an old fashioned and proceeded to drink a little more voraciously than I should have. And then the guy appeared right next to me, out of nowhere. A strong smell of cigarettes and cologne teased my nostrils, as he leaned over the counter.
"Scotch on the rocks, please."
I squeezed my almost empty glass, observing his face closer than ever before.
"Hey, what's up?" he asked, noticing my peep.
"Good concert, man. You never stop to impress."
"I was blown away too. I muddled the lyrics only a hundred times or so. That would be much less than usually," he smiled at me, before gripping the glass handled by the barman.
"Only a hundred times? Are you sure? I might have counted some more," I replied with a smile, the booze started to get to my brain, bringing a temporary relaxation.
He laughed, sipping his drink, with his hand lying comfortably on the counter. His palm was big, I could see all the veins running from his wrist and down his fingers. The skin on their tips was visibly hard from constant pushing on the strings. Harsh hands they were. There was something very manly about them. I suddenly started to wonder how they would feel, and whether he would hold his lover as tight, as he had held that guitar of his.
