Open Mic
I went.
I ate a sammich.
I went first.
I sang well, I thought, but it’s hard to hear yourself there, especially the guitar.
I talked to old friends and new acquaintances. I found out one of my friends lost his mother to death, and his lady friend the night of the funeral. Summer 2006 has been a bitch.
I laughed and read.
I sang harmony with the other performers.
I cried during a Spanish lost-love song.
I yawned and decided I’d had enough about quarter ’til 10. Nights are hardest, and I was wiped.
And then I cried all the way home, slaloming between drivers who were driving extra slowly and carefully, lest they get pinched by the police in betwixt bars. And I wiped my eyes clear of tears so I could see the road. Because I won’t be able to tell him how open mic went. And I won’t be able to tell him about the new jerk who came late, mouthed off to the regulars, and then sucked. And he’ll never hear my new Paul Simon song, which he would’ve loved.
I hate this so much.