Buzzing

The music fills my head.  I'm drunk and alone, but the sound keeps me safe, fills up the gaps where fear normally hides.  I watch the band playing, fuck, I love musicians' hands so much, skillful, strong fingers, delicate one moment, flicking like a slap to the face the next.

He's got hands like that, hands that make me watch them, hands that smoothly pull my mind into his anchors.  I need them on my body so much it's like the air's made of aching for him.

I take another swig, let the alcohol numb my desire for a while, even though I know it'll just make it worse in a few moments.

There's so many people here I'd like to fuck, I let the music make everything seem like a film, at a distance, beautifully lit and shot, no consequences.  I smile at someone I half know, he nods back politely, can't place me and doesn't find me attractive enough to bother asking me to remind him.

I feel old suddenly, no-one's looking at me with furtive fantasies the way I am them.  Not even the balding guys with fading T-Shirts and beer guts.  When did I stop being someone that got chatted up at gigs?   I feel my eyes getting a bit wet and drink some more, I don't want to associate tonight with sadness, this band's amazing, focus on that.

Soon I'm lost in the drones, the feedback pulling at my body, slithering inside me, puppeting me with it's sadistic whine.  For a moment I think his hands on my shoulders are in my imagination, but then I turn and time slows to a perfect, endless moment as I look into his grinning face.

"I didn't think you could make it?"

"I skipped work early, I can always get them to let me go if I try."

I'm so happy I must be glowing.  We stand next to each other, moving perfectly in tune with the music, in tune with each other.  I'm buzzing, and nothing can hurt me now.