She meets me outside. She said she would. When I see her I know it’s too late to retreat now. Too late to continue to fuck off home and under the covers. I’m committed now, goddamnitt. She knows I wear glasses. What possessed me to tell this woman what I look like?
I launch myself out of the car and into the lot like I am spring-loaded. If I stop walking I’ll only start again to bolt in the opposite direction.
She’s smiling in this soft, completely non-threatening way. Her hair is acres long and board straight and for a wild second I fight this insane urge to reach out and touch it. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans, rock back on the heels of my boots and approximate what I figure a willingness to be open looks like.
We are wordless as she shows me the sign in sheet. For another insane moment I contemplate aliases then writing in the names of sworn enemies. The ceiling tiles sag down to get a better look at what I’m writing. The Dracanea plant, sold as “lucky” bamboo and quietly drowning in the glass vase on the receptionist’s desk, implores me. Fuck it. Too late, anyway.
Cue Cohen. Everybody Knows.
I write my full name in neat block letters under hers.
I am sitting at this long table and my mind catapults to absurdity. I wonder if I could borrow it if I start doing festival shows again next year. I’m doing anything to avoid the literature, the pages of positivity pinned to the walls, the expecting smiles of my new seat-mates on this bullet train to Surrender To It, USA. I start to wonder where the hell they got all these office chairs.
I’m mentally cataloging which booze would go best with a big thermos of coffee and the ethics of drinking it here when AnnMarie clears her throat, throws that enviable mane off her shoulders, and asks us if we’re ready to begin.
The Dappy Bint 