He's almost young enough to be my son, this dark haired musician with the good time smile and the carefree, classic good looks, and I find myself feeling a quick flash of heat when he leans in toward me and asks to buy me a drink. It's nearly a forgotten feeling and passes swiftly - just a momentary reminder that I may be older, but I'm not dead. He grins, pours me a coke, and takes the stage with an easy, unselfconscious flair. If I were only twenty years younger, my friend BJ sighs and I nod. I know exactly what she means.
It's reassuring to know that my hormones still work - if perhaps a tad erratically - and that the sight and nearness of an attractive man can still make me sit up and take notice if not outright stir my blood. I find myself vividly aware of his hand resting on my shoulder and the faint smell of cologne when he kisses my cheek, I notice what he drinks and what brand of cigarettes he smokes, pay attention to the way he carries himself. These are signs of life and I'm glad to have them reawakened. There's nothing here to act upon, Lord knows, but at least my senses are intact - better to wear out than rust, I like to think - and when I raise my camera and focus in, he looks straight at me and gives me a wink. This distracts me, makes me laugh, and not only do I miss the shot, I find I don't really mind.
I love this life of smoky bars and light hearted flirtations, of music played for the love of music, of margueritas and pool tables and late nights that don't end til early morning.
My energy, sexual and otherwise, is invested in capturing the images and the passion behind them. I'm only held hostage because I want to be.
Even so, my heart skips a beat at that sexy, seductive on stage wink. It responds while my mind is otherwise occupied and my flesh is weary and I kind of like it that way.
1 comment:
Magnificent.
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