We had a table right next to the dance floor. People buzzed around us, Fantastic show, Love the album, Oh my god that song makes me so hot. Nice for the band: but right now was for us, so everyone was politely turned away while we drank and laughed and dissected the show.
I sat next to Con. Duncan was on his other side, still cranked on music: his eyes shone and his body wanted to touch. I watched the crowd watching us, and said to Con, “So, is this how you imagined it when you were a kid?”
Con made the huh face, and then grinned. “The first band fantasy I ever had was that Tico Torres would get run over by the tour bus and I would be Bon Jovi”s new drummer.”
So unexpected, and so perfect: Duncan and I nearly fell out of our chairs laughing. Con went on, “Seriously. I loved those guys, I still do. And I could totally see myself in the really tight faded jeans and the hair””
“Stop,” said Duncan, who was by now gasping for breath. A wonderful thing, to see him so abandoned to joy. He came out of his chair and straddled Con”s lap. “Please, mister rock star,” he said, “can I be your groupie tonight?”
“Get off,” Con laughed.
“Love to,” Duncan said, looking particularly wicked as he always did when he saw a chance to tweak Con, who was undoubtedly the straightest man on the planet.
“You”re a fucking pervert,” Con said with genuine love. “Get off me.” Duncan laughed and went back to his own chair.
“And what did you see yourself playing?” I said.
“Easy,” Con said, “”Bad Medicine.””
— from “Dangerous Space” by Kelley Eskridge
