Notorious

Phobia

The one mystery in life that still intrigues me and that I may never be able to solve is how someone can be so convinced, can wholly believe that they can actually sing.

They could sound like a dying whale, like nails on a chalkboard, like they need to be put out of their misery and still be convinced that they are the next Mariah Carey.

It truly, truly baffles me to this day, but amuses me nonetheless.

The man on stage right now is taking "karaoke night" to a new extreme.

Gold-studded blazer, tight (much too tight) black jeans, creepers, Raybans, and fingerless gloves for the attire. Gyrating hips, flipping non-existent hair, crotch grabbing, and pointing to random people in the audience for the moves. And Justin Timberlake's, "Sexy Back" for the song of choice.

This forty something year old man is living out his wildest fantasies in the cramped stage of the crowded bar so appropriately named, "The Mid-Life Crisis."

I refrain from laughing at the man despite the fact that he hasn't hit a single note, despite the outfit, despite the moves, despite the irony of the bar's name. I don't laugh because I'm actually envious of him.

Because he's up there. He is up on that stage belting out a song no one should ever sing in public in front of a group of thirty people, mostly in their twenties, and mostly assholes.

I can't even sing in the fucking shower.

Not anymore.

Zayn is cracking jokes about his clothes and Niall and Liam are laughing much too loudly at them and Harry has this smirk on his face that is so condescending I want to smack it off of him. Hell, even Avery has her head down, shoulders shaking as she tries to contain her laughter.

It makes me irrationally angry.

Maybe a year ago I would've been laughing along with them, booing and criticizing him, but now I wish I had half the courage as he has. Now, I just sit back in the booth with my arms crossed and my beer untouched.

Harry expects me to sing tonight. He brought us here to make up for the karaoke night I ditched and I'm suddenly wishing I had ditched again. There is no way I am going up in that stage if they are laughing at some stranger like this.

The uppity twats.

Harry must notice my sour expression because I feel a foot connect with mine, curling around my ankle, caressing it slightly. When I don't meet his gaze he shifts in his seat across from me so that his leg is right up against mine.

And I hate myself for the spark it sends through my body.

I catch his eye to find a concerned frown on his face and an unspoken question on his lips. He rubs my leg with his slightly –his way of soothing me without the others noticing and I do want to reassure him I'm fine but Zayn cracks another joke and Harry snorts lightly.

I pull my leg away.

And when that man belts out the last note of the song horribly off-key I am the only one that stands up to clap for him. In the midst of boos and laughter I holler out encouragement and clap wildly.

The smile that lights up his entire face at my applause is one for the books.

When I sit back down I am faced with five confused faces. I ignore them.

"That was awfully enthusiastic. I never pegged you for a karaoke fan." Zayn throws his arm over my shoulder casually and Harry's eyes instantly fall to it.