She sang melodies that reminded me that I will always be weak. That I will always be an addict. That I will never be the cool kid with a model type chick on my arm because I am a sucker for sustenance.
With a guitar accompaniment, she sang Nina, she sang Stevie, she sang Liana La Havas, and she sang originals. And with each cord struck, with each note hit, with each personable introduction to each song I became enamored with her. I was also very careful to remind myself that I did not deserve her. And that she was not in that moment, nor will she ever be a prize to be won. She is a talented musician. I am a struggling writer. We are not equal. It was her voice that had me high and delusional, thinking that I could somehow heal her. Thinking that she was singing to me and me alone in the passenger seat of my car overlooking the Berkeley Marina. She got me. She always gets me. I had to remove myself after the encore. I didn’t hang around to give her an idea of what she had done to me. I didn’t want to be outwardly corny. I didn’t want to be outwardly cliché. I didn’t send her a message on social media. I didn’t comment “Thank you” on the events page. I simply left the venue. I ran downstairs and into the cold Oakland air. I waited a few days. And then I wrote this.