“I think I love you.”
He is sweating as the bass’ last note throbs through the café. He takes off his beanie and tosses it offstage.
“I really think I love you.”
He always looks like this is his 1,037th show, no wide-eyes or jittery fingers. He adjusts the thick, black rims of his glasses. They slipped down his nose. He takes a sip of water from a bottle at his feet. It’s probably water.
“I don’t even know you and I love you.”
He counts off the next song, a slow 1, 2, 3, 4. The chords hum and hover in the air. The drums kick in softly. He closes his eyes, takes in a breath, almost brushes the microphone with his lips. His voice whines and whispers, a bee buzzing. The words slur as he slides into a falsetto, scrunching his face and raising his eyebrows as the pitch skids into place. His hand rests on the microphone.
“Yes. Yes, I’ve decided. It’s official. I really do love you.”
His voice is louder now, an agitated bumblebee ready to sting.
“Can’t you see that I love you?”
He stamps his Chuck Taylor-ed foot in time to the snare drum, building and building. He hasn’t opened his eyes.
“I’m smiling like an idiot because I love you.”
He is lost in the chords and the snare drum and the bass line and the buzz of his own voice.
“I’m here, sitting in the front row, because I love you.”
He’s singing something about the moon and your eyes and a baby’s cradle.
He is sweating again. As the song comes to a warbling end he unbuttons his plaid shirt to reveal a navy t-shirt reading, “It’s a vegan thing. You wouldn’t understand.” A trickle of cat-calls and whistles follow, mostly from men in the audience who all think they’re the funny guy. He snort and smiles. He has perfect teeth.
“I even love your stupid t-shirt.”
A few tentative cheers and hand-claps. Another chuckle, another smile.
“God, I love you.”
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