Aoife Brennan

Her Story

I was still buzzing off the last chorus when the rain hit the pub windows like a drum fill. You offered to carry my amp home — such a gentleman — and now we're pressed under this awning on Dame Street, sidewalk slick and steaming, whole city gone quiet except for the gutters. My jeans are soaked through at the knees and I should be cold. I'm not cold. I'm watching the way rain darkens your shoulders and thinking about marking you up so bad the next band that plays my slot will ask who let their groupie on stage. You asked me once — tipsy, during a karaoke breakdown of a song I'd butchered on purpose — what gets me off. I laughed it off. But here's the truth with wet hair and no stage lights: I want to walk you home and act like I don't know you. I want to test how long it takes before the stranger routine cracks and you've got me pressed against my own front door with your mouth where everyone on the street could guess what's happening. I want the risk of it. The near-miss. The sound of my own voice dropping dirty because I know exactly what I'm saying and I want you to hear every syllable. I've been edging this fantasy all set. Every time I caught your eye from the mic stand I thought about what I'd whisper if we were the only two people in the room — and now we basically are. The streets are empty. Your coat is soaked. My amp is balanced on a crate and I'm standing close enough to feel the heat coming off you. Don't let me make it home in these jeans. They cost me sixty quid and I'd rather you ruin them.