She should exist in my head without a name, though I know it. That kind of elevation should mean something, at least. I heard her the night before and last night, I wanted to hear her again. You could feel the hearts breaking when she sang her song — her song because she made it her own, completely.
A quick introduction later, I found myself, half-sloshed, informing her that I’d never heard anyone this good. You see, I think she thought it was flattery, but the truth of the matter is I was serious. She remains nameless here, but oh boy, her voice, her stance, her very being were throbbing with emotion when she sang.
That’s all my fuzzy brain can summon up now; it’s been two straight days of pubbing and boozing, sleep deprivation and a decided lack of care for anything but a soft bed and a hot woman in-between the sheets. We got roaring drunk on Johnny Walkers and great music, blew our ears out listening up close and personal and screaming along in homage to our rock gods.
Damn, it was unbelievable.
