Burning Passion
The band playing ends its set, and I turn off my camera. The guitar player comes up to me, his body inches from mine, and smiles. “Hey, can I see those pictures? We have to pack up our gear, but there’s this party later. You should come,” he suggests, and I bite my lip, nodding. “Y-yeah! Totally,” I manage to stutter, and he writes down the directions, accompanied by his name (“Thomas”) and number. Then he walks off, and I stand there for a moment before walking outside to talk to some of the bands that played earlier. After everyone’s begun to get in their cars and leave, I climb into my rusty old El Camino and glance at the directions. I look in my rear view mirror, checking my make-up before driving to the …