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Backstage, I was talking with Dennis and Shane about how surreal this whole experience has been as I straightened my red tie and looked into the mirror at my black raiment. It was our final show for "On Frail Wings Of Vanity and Wax" and all six of us had red ties and black dress clothes. As I turned back towards Dennis, in an act of caprice, he flung his arms around me and said, "thanks for starting this band with me, Shawn". Dumbstruck, I nodded and returned the hug. As he released me, I realized something. All the money in the world is chaff compared to this band; this band leaves me in a state of felicity. If I could take this band beyond temporal constrains , I would give up all my opulence to play forever with these guys.
"Alright guys, it's time!" or manager was saying as he approached us with viands, "you have two minutes". Without a word, we picked up our instruments and started walking. We passed Craigery Owens as his band left the stage; I am proud to say that I ungrudgingly
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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