music monday: lonely sunday

I come to this dank and mangy Brooklyn bar every Friday night just for him. And even though it’s quite the challenge dashing from work to my Down Town apartment and then over to Williamsburg, I do so just for him. I make myself up every Friday night, wearing the tightest of dresses and slickest of leathers. My reddest of lipsticks and most impractical of heels; always for him. And I do all this on the off-chance that tonight will be the night he finally notices me as more than just his best friend.

The subway ride is long and lethargic but I pass the time thinking of him. I imagine what that moment would be like. That moment when he opens his eyes to those imaginary sparks that ignite and blaze between our souls. And in that moment I see him grabbing my waist, yanking my yearning body onto his, feeling those liquor stained lips deliciously parting my own.

I reach my destination and find him faithfully awaiting me slouched at the bar, deep in troubled thoughts. His eyes are dark, a blend of hazel and green swirling, mesmerizing like a whirlpool. Eyes that instantly illuminate once they find mine. He greets me with a shot of Patron, we clink glasses before throwing back the searing transparent liquid. I can’t help but watch as he runs hypnotic rings around the rim of his glass, totally consumed with what plagues within. Is it nerves? Or is it me?

A husky voice explodes through the room, announcing him and his band to stage. I reach over and squeeze his knee, whispering, “break a leg”. He jumps up, adrenaline now surging through his veins. He plants a friendly kiss on my cheek before swiftly gliding through the crowd of revellers to the stage. And on that stage he comes so beautifully alive; setting fire to the rain. And with the abrupt strums of his Fender, the silent sound of every girls panties dropping in submission pulsates through the crowd, through the room.

He’s irrevocably magnetic and so damn sexy on that stage. And even though he sings about another girl and another conquest, I sit here and pretend that he sings about me. Pretend that I am his muse, that I am the one who invades his mind and heart that way.


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