I hate that I can see the back of his head and I hate even more that he does not look back at me once. My eyes dart between the Flamenco dancer, the guitarist, the singer, and the back of his head for an hour and forty minutes. It feels like my insides are being ripped out, lying to dry on the table, soaking in sangria.
I stare blankly at the table watching the ghosts of my vulnerabilities morph into tangible centerpieces, while the entire room applauds.
– a memoir someday