THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
We're sitting in a bar in Islington after you've played. I've drunk too much without meaning to.
The positioning has been shifting constantly all night, but now you're sitting next to me. The table is small and there's too many of us there- your leg touches mine, your jacket gets caught on my sweater.
We're talking about school and you frown and you say, 'Why is everyone always concerned about me?'
I'm glad that I'm sitting, because the room is already spinning a little just from where I am. To my right, theoretical physics are being drunkenly discussed. A glass of wine is spilled and my friend's finger has been cut and she can't remember how. Blood is running down her wrist, over her silver rings.
I can't remember who or what was on- I didn't watch any of the sets before or after you. The whole time you played, my friends tried to divide my attention, tugging for conversation, pulling their fingers through my hair.
I look at you, wishing I hadn't turned my head so quickly, 'It's just because they care about you.'