“You look lovely this evening.”
“Oh, this? Just a t-shirt and shorts?”
“Yes. Well, I must admit, it’s more clothing than I’d prefer, but since we’re in public and all…”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I know. And you love it.”
“Of course.”
I fan myself with my hand.
“It’s been rather hot lately, hasn’t it?”
“Huh? Oh! The weather. Yeah.”
“Is it always this hot here in the summer?”
“No. This is freaky hot.” Like you. I wish I were the type of person who could pull off saying something like that. But… maybe not. I mean, do guys really like stuff like that? Leslie seems to think so. And I don’t ever want to say anything remotely resembling something she would say.
Not for the first time, I get the paranoid feeling that he can read my mind as he looks over my head, a private smile on his face. Then he changes the subject. “You mentioned your father earlier. Do your mum and dad live nearby still?”
I’m saved from answering by the opening band, who’s revving up. It’s deafening. We stand with the rest of the crowd and cheer, even though we have no idea who they are. Jude inserts his pinkie and forefinger into his mouth and lets rip an ear-splitting whistle. My eyes widen. He wipes his fingers on his shorts.
“Sorry,” he mouths.
The look on his face is so comically sheepish that I crack up. He relaxes and grins, putting his arm casually around my shoulders. We hop up and down, like all the people around us are doing, to the beat of the music.
Although I didn’t recognize the name of the group, one of their songs has been featured heavily on the radio and in a car commercial, so I know the words and sing along without even thinking about whether or not I should. The band does their job, loosening everyone up, lowering our inhibitions as they encourage us to participate and dance with each other, whether we’re total strangers to each other or co-workers who may as well be.
At the end of their act, Jude turns to me. “Programs. Would you like one?”
I shrug. “Should I?”
My response seems to puzzle him. “Uh… Hmm… I don’t know how to answer that.” He laughs.
The heat from my face could incubate a hatchery. “It’s just that”—I try to explain my seemingly inexplicable answer—“I’ve… never…” I sigh and look away from him as I make my confession. “This is the first concert I’ve ever been to. So I don’t know if it’s worth it to get a program. I’ve never done this before.”
He stands up and holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers at me. “In that case, the answer is ‘yes.’ It’s mandatory that you have a program commemorating your very first rock concert.”
Uncertainly, I take his hand. It’s warm and dry. I stare at our two hands for seconds that seem like an hour. I feel disconnected from my body as I try to remember the last time I held anyone’s hand. It saddens me when I can’t recall. It was probably the hand of one of my parents, as we were crossing a street when I was a little kid.
Jude pulls me to my feet. “Right. I think I saw a stand right this side of the security check.” He lets go of me when he sees me still gazing at our linked hands.
I smile nervously up at him, hoping I didn’t offend him. “Okay. Let’s go, then.”
It takes a good thirty minutes to weave through the crowd, stand in line, and get back to our seats. By the time I’ve had a chance to do a cursory flip through the little booklet, the lights are dimming, some music starts playing, and the crowd goes crazy. The guy behind me grabs my shoulders and shakes them, even though I’ve never seen him before in my life. Jude turns around and says, “Oi!” good-naturedly, but I laugh to show that I don’t mind. I’m pretty excited too, and can understand the guy’s enthusiasm.
The band runs out onto the stage, waving before taking their positions at their instruments and microphones. The lead singer yells, “How’s it goin’, Chicago?!” in the sexiest Irish brogue I’ve ever heard, stirring up the kind of scream-fest that makes my hearing distort.
The first song they perform is fairly slow, which I think is an interesting choice, but I guess it gets everyone’s attention. I’m not familiar with it, so I listen intently to the lyrics. And I’m a little shaken by how much I can relate to them. Of course, that’s what makes a song good, right, that pretty much everyone can find some way to relate to it? But it’s still a little spooky, like the lead singer’s singing directly to me. When he softly sings the final words, the crowd goes ballistic, screaming, clapping, whistling, and—in some of the girls’ cases—crying. I stand there, processing the song.
Jude nudges me. “ARE YOU OKAY?” he shouts, leaning down closer to my ear.
I nod, pasting what I hope is a sincere-looking smile on my face. Then the next song (a fast, catchy number) starts, and the moment passes. None of the other songs take me by surprise. I actually know more of them than I’d expected I would. Jude and I sing and clap along unselfconsciously to the faster songs, even when they’re clearly about love or—more often—sex (or is that just where my mind is?). We simply let loose and have a good time.
It’s something I’ve never done before, and I can see now how it could be addictive.
10
In addition to the over-priced program, I walk away from the concert with two t-shirts, ringing ears, and a huge crush on the entire band. And I don’t want the night to end… ever.
So I’m relieved when Jude says (shouts) in the car, “I’m starving. Let’s go to this great gastropub in my neighborhood. It’s open late.”
“A
