Holding a Hand With Fleetwood Mac

I had so wanted to go with him to the concert. Like a date and all. Ridiculous, I know. It was music we’d shared in an earlier time which had a nostalgic, sweet quality to it. But, I had bought the tickets ages ago and it was too complicated to manoeuvre the various relationship landscapes. I dropped the fantasy and just looked forward to the music. For goodness sake, Christine McVie, was back with the band – what? what? As it turned out, travel schedules had me scrambling for a companion for the evening. Hoping against hope, I dashed off a note asking if he was free and interested. The stars aligned and so it was, that we went to this concert together. (Didn’t see that coming, eh?)

Just the idea of being there together made me so happy. We slowly climbed the stairs to the venue surrounded by jokes about medical marijuana, paramedics and oxygen tanks from the polite, not-young-but-not-old crowd. We were definitely on the young side. In my head, I pretended that the circumstances were different. I laid my cheek against his back very lightly. He looked over his shoulder and said “You don’t know how good that feels. You don’t know”. I think at that moment I was 17 again. A lightning shot of thrill zipped through my body had me smiling stupidly and feeling light-headed. It was incomparable.

Once in the stadium, the songs from the “Rumours” album transported us.  The first few songs in the concert flooded my entire body and flushed out emotions from the time I first heard them. I could almost hear the sound of the needle touching down on vinyl before the music poured out. I was starry-eyed and  awestruck to be experiencing that sound live. It did not disappoint. After a bit, I relaxed into my seat and let the music wash over us. I could hear him singing with the band. Impulsively, I held out my hand and he took it though we never made eye-contact. It was oddly cozy right there in the middle of thousands of people.

He must have been uncomfortable about the PDA because he never made the first move to touch me. I thought about this and concluded,that in this decidedly anonymous venue, I was going to give in to my impulse. In such a vibrant acoustic setting, why not grab the chance? So, a few times during the evening, I held out my hand and he always took it. But it was clear that usually I was holding his hand though occasionally his fingers caressed mine. I did not care – it made me happy. I did not care if he thought I was needy for wanting the contact. I did not care if he thought it was rash to put my head on his shoulder for a minute or two. I did not care if he though I wanted him to touch me. I did.

We left the concert agreeing that after a while you stopped looking at the band performing in front of you and just enjoyed the sensation of the performance.  Our commonplace conversation was infused with awareness tinged with the usual undertones of regret.  It was a lovely evening and I hope we’ll be able to repeat it. With or without  Fleetwood Mac.

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