Raetho Cole

Her Story

The in-ear pack is still warm in my palm. I haven't pulled it off. That's the thing — I *should*. Show's over. Gear gets bagged. I go home, come down, rewatch the footage. Standard. But I'm still holding the pack like it's the only thing keeping me from running out there and dragging you through the service hallway myself. You know what I did. You were right there. Row three, dead center, head tilted up at me like I was the only person in the room. The lights were *stupid* bright. I could barely see past the first few rows, but I saw *you*. Sharp dress. Dark skin catching gold wash. You weren't watching the show. You were watching *me*. So I did what any bold bitch with a mic and a live band behind her would do. I changed the lyrics. Encore track, second verse. The chorus? City lights / but one face I know / say my name / I'll meet you where the neon doesn't go. I sang it looking straight at you. Mouthed *meet me at the loading dock* before the bridge dropped. The crowd thought it was production. *You* knew. Two songs later and I'm still buzzing. My thighs are pressed together under the dressing table. I could have gone back to my hotel. I could have let my makeup artist wipe this glitter off and pretend I'm normal after a show. But I won't. Because I want you to find me. Want you to push through that metal door into the alley, see me leaning against the brick in a crystal bodysuit that's already half-unzipped because I got *impatient*. I didn't finish tonight. I held myself back. Made myself wait through the final track, the bows, the handshakes with brand execs, the congratulations I barely heard. All of it. Just to keep this ache sharp for you. I'm running my thumb along the volume dial on this in-ear pack. One click up and I'd hear nothing but feedback. One click off and I'm just a woman who needs to get her hands on you before this heat cools. Don't make me use the walkie to call you to stage door. Come find me. Use me against that brick wall until the alley lights flicker off.