“Fucker!” I hiss under my breath. I grab my drink and tip it into my mouth, the aggression in my actions making the liquid slosh and dribble down my chin. I ignore it, the cool drop sliding down my neck actually helping to cool me down while I simmer.
Asshole! I curse again, this time to myself, feeling my eyes squinting as I try to send death rays through the dense crowd to wherever he is, imagining him clutching his heart in pain as I cast a hate spell over him. Cannot believe he said all that shit just to get me. Argh.
Don’t you really hate that he DID get at you? Ugh, that voice again.
Shut up, bitch. I tell myself, oblivious to the irony.
I gather my things, shoving my phone into my bag. I don’t want to run into the asswipe again tonight. I’m just going to have to reschedule my appointment. I down the last mouthful of my drink, this time managing not to miss my mouth and push my way to the exit.
Suddenly there’s a huge cheer from somewhere and everyone surges forward. I get caught up in the crowd of people moving like a wave of sloshed humans towards the direction of the back of the bar. I know better than to fight it, and just hold tight to my handbag, pulling it against my body and taking deep breaths, waiting for the tide of cheering drinkers around me to subside.
There’s a squeal of feedback from a microphone, and then a female voice.
“Welcome to the Muddy Pig! How are you all doing TONIIIGGHHHTT!!!!!!?” There’s a huge roar, and a sweaty guy in a flannel shirt next to me gives me a toothy grin and raises his half full glass at me. Despite my mood, I can’t help but smile back; his good mood, slightly infectious. “Judging by the crowd, I guess our best kept secret wasn’t such a secret. We have with us tonight, the lovely lads, half of them home-grown I might add, the ROCK CHAMBER BOYS! Take it away, boys!”
There’s another roaring cheer, this time SO loud; I almost drop my bag as I try to cover my ears. There’s a surge from behind and we all move a few feet forward. I can’t help but get caught up in the excitement (and trust me, I’m trying). I crane my neck as the lights go down; there’s the sound of a few strings being plucked, then nothing.
And then, like an explosion, there’s a burst of sound. Through the gaps of the heads instantly bobbing to life in front of me, I can just make out the four figures on the stage. They’re all males and playing string instruments; two cellos, a violin and a viola, playing something you probably wouldn’t expect from a string quartet.
“If you know the lyrics, sing along, ‘cos I sure as hell don’t remember them!” A loud voice rings out, causing everyone to raise their hands and shout the words. Everyone knows them, of course.
“I can’t get NO. Satisfaction!”
There’s a thumping of three or four hundred feet on the bar’s floor to go with the hands raising in the air and the voices singing at the top of their lungs.
The band’s strings pounding out the tune, filling up all the empty space. I find my own foot tapping, and I glare at it, telling it to stop. Somehow, I’ve found myself inching closer and closer to the front of the crowd and out to the side.
Out of frustration, one of my elbows jabs into the guy next to me, but he just turns and grins at me, giving me a wink and moving to let me through. Something about the music is putting everyone in a good mood.
Everyone but me that is.
I get to the front and look up.
And the fucker is smiling at me. Standing to the right side of the tiny stage, pulling his bow across his viola at an almost imperceptible speed, kicking his left leg out to the beat of the song, and fucking grinning at me. It’s humid in the bar; three hundred people crowded around a tiny space, dancing and singing and breathing their alcohol-riddled air will do that. It’s made my hair damp and I run a hand through it, pushing it away from my face.
He watches me as I do it, the smile fading a little, but something grows deeper in his eyes. They move to mine, and I narrow them, switching them on to death-glare mode.
His grin comes back and the he throws his head back in a laugh. He fucking LAUGHS. The violinist standing next to him kicks him in the shin to get his attention, and I half wish he’d broken his leg. He finally looks away from me as they all move to form a tight circle on the stage, the beat increasing and their playing gets louder. They’re building to an ending.
“SING IT FUCKERS!”
“SATISFACTION! SATISFACTION! SATISFACTION!” The happy hoards shout over and over, and it’s a cacophony of voices and stomping and music.
And then it’s over.
The cheers are louder than the claps, and I slink back a little, my back pressing against the wall. It’s darker here, and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to be seen trying to catch my breath. Breath lost in the excitement of it all.
They really do put on a good show.
***
The rest of the set is no different.
Song after song, they build the crowd into a frenzy. Even ones that start like a ballad, or a well-known classical piece that would you would think would be better suited for a church or chamber hall, just when it might get boring for some, they glide effortlessly into a popular rock or pop song and it’s like there was no transition. And everyone is on their feet.
It does NOT bode well for my growing hatred of him.
The way he flirts with the crowd. Not just the women, but the crowd as a whole. Never taking a moment to still his bow on his viola but interacting through his movements and his expressions. He doesn’t say much, so I don’t have to hiss at the sound of his voice, but he doesn’t need to.
They’re all masters at manipulating the crowd.
And as much as I want to leave. I don’t. I find myself wondering what else they’re going to play and lamenting the idea of missing it.
When their short set is up, the disappointment is palpable, mine included. But no amount of begging seems to convince them of an encore.
When I see them putting down their instruments, I push away from my hidden spot against the wall and make for the exit. I hear footsteps behind me, and then his voice.
“What did you think of the show?” he asks. And I turn before I know what I’m doing.