The Django

Sitting again with you at the Django, waiting for Lucy and Grant to take the stage – our doppelgänger couple – you as from Day One the one for me despotically luminous creature in the room buy as if you're unhappy a double shot of vodka. Which you consume in a single swallow. So I order a bottle of wine and a second and by the end of the night we’re sharing what we can’t finish with table neighbors.

 

And you weren’t unhappy, not then, and not when dozing on my shoulder on the A Train, or in my arms in bed after maybe puking a bit. In the near-dawn while you slept I thought: They see us as allies, too, recognizing our surprise, gratitude, safety.

Those things don’t last but probably shouldn’t. The courageous being condemned to grief by their courage.

 

Still, listening half-drunk we knew we’d found what Lucy was singing about, what Grant played, and I suppose we knew we'd ruin it. But we listened long enough to forget what we feared and let ourselves become what we heard. The songs were right. Nothing else awaits.