Why did I think that the singer could be part of that, help bring it about? The answer stabs at me: Mummy.
I wanted Mummy to love me. I’d been alone for so long. I needed someone by my side to help me manage Mummy.
Why wasn’t there someone, anyone, to help me manage Mummy? I played the scene in my head again, over and over,
remembering the second thing that I’d realized that night. It was later and I’d been standing further back, right in the middle of the crowd.
I’d gone to get yet another drink, and the path to the front of the stage had closed up while I’d been at the bar.
I’d downed the vodka—my sixth? Seventh? I don’t remember. He couldn’t see my face from where I was standing, I was aware of that.
The band had stopped playing—someone had broken a string and was replacing it.
He leaned in to the microphone and cocked an eyebrow. I saw his lazy, handsome smile.
He peered, unseeing, into the darkness.What are we going to do now, then? Since Davie’s taking so fucking long to change that string.
He turned back toward a sullen man who gave him the finger without looking up from his guitar.
“Right then, here’s something to keep you entertained, ladies!” he said,
then turned his back, undid his belt, dropped his jeans and wiggled his pale white buttocks at us.
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