Empty Acoustic Night

            Shiny patent leather shoes tap in time on the floor. Pointed toes and straight laces, this is where it all begins. His fingers pluck desperately along the taut strings, begging for something, anything, any type of feeling to make his heart beat faster. But it’s too busy keeping time, pumping blood to the tips of his toes.

            The voice that curls around the back of his tongue insists that he just needs to sing louder. He tilts his head back and projects the notes to the ceiling. Something, anything. The girl sitting on the floor looks down, embarrassed. She smirks at her phone and taps two fingers in time to music he is not playing.

            He feels the heat in his cheeks and the pressure at the back of his neck. A word chokes through his parted lips. In this moment he feels not long for this world and like time will go on forever. He searches the crowd. The best he can do is the rapt attention of a dull-eyed man, so he studies this person. His expression says he thinks you would love him if you really knew him.

            He shrugs this performance off like one too many coats. As he locks his guitar back in its case, he tells himself that this is a part of the process, this is what he expected. Yet he never thought this steely sense of loss would fill him so completely. He whistles to remind himself he is not alone: he has his brain, his hands, his spirit. Next time will be better, he thinks. Next time he will see them for what they are, and they will know it. He will shape mountains with his fingers and grab the sun from the sky. Next time it will be okay.