That's Where You're Wrong

One: Didn't recognize you through the smoke...

"Need a light?"

The voice is low and quiet, so soft he barely pronounces the 't' at the end of 'light', but it still makes me jump.

I was already shaking before I got outside, so it's not his fault, but I wasn't expecting anyone to be out here before the full end of the show– especially not on the other side of some nondescript side door that I thought must be to a loading dock or something. And with me fumbling in my pocket, and then in my purse... It makes sense that he's offering a light.

"No, thanks," I reply, barely registering the person I'm speaking to as I finally extricate my phone from my too-small bag and look down at the screen.

Two missed calls from Dave. Fuck. That's what I was afraid of.

"All right?"

I look up and finally make eye contact with this stranger, realizing I've just let out a very dramatically shaky and heavy breath, but then I freeze on the spot because I know him.

Actually, I don't know him. I know who he is. Alex Turner, the lead singer of the Arctic Monkeys. A band whose shows I went to twice in one tour just last year... and years before that as well. And he's asking me if I'm all right.

His hair has been cut shorter since I saw him at Forest Hills last fall, tousled in a way that makes him look younger. He's wearing a brown leather jacket and dark pants, and even though I've always found him attractive, seeing him in person makes my adrenaline veer in an entirely different direction. Makes my tequila soaked mouth go dry.

Licking my lips, I pull myself together enough to say, "Actually, would you mind if I bummed one of those from you?"

He pulls a pack from his pocket and hands it to me with his lighter, the feel of his fingers against mine and the scent of his smoke and aftershave filling up my senses.

I don't smoke. I actually haven't even had a cigarette since college, when there was nothing quite like just one outside of a party or a bar when you'd built a beautiful alcohol buzz. Dave hated it though, and it didn't feel quite the same after graduation anyway. But sliding one from the pack and lighting up is like riding a bike, and it gives me something to do with my hands that are still shaking.

"Thanks," I say– after my first initial coughing fit– when I hand him back his cigarettes.

Neither of us says anything as we smoke for a moment. I don't want to stare at him, so I look down the side of the building toward the street, where some people are milling on the sidewalk outside of the barricades of the Palladium. One girl shrieks and laughter breaks out around her. Someone shouts down the street about their ride.

Looking back, I find Alex Turner's eyes on me, and when I catch him staring, he smiles faintly back.

My phone lights up in my hand, and I look down to see Hazel's name above a text alert, just as he asks, "Enjoying the show?"

I ignore the text and look up once more to reply, "Oh, yeah. I love these guys." I barely stop myself from saying I saw them opening for him in New York twice. "What about you?" I reply instead.

"I am."

There's another shriek from the street, but we both ignore it to drag on our cigarettes. I'm grateful at the steadying effect it's having on me, and I absently let myself consider becoming a smoker as a part of my new L.A. life.

"I think I saw you inside."

This catches me off guard, and I ignore my phone lighting up with another text.

"Were you in the VIP area?"

"I was, yeah."

Hazel was going to take her boyfriend to the concert tonight, but she insisted I have his ticket. As she put it: "I really wouldn't enjoy a fucking second of it if I knew you were crying on my couch watching Bravo on your first weekend in L.A. On this weekend of all fucking weekends, no way." The guilt I'd feel at her not enjoying the show forced my hand. That, and I do actually love Fontaines D.C.