By the time you’re reading this, my husband will have seen Stevie Nicks in concert. In what I imagine were pretty good seats. After I confirmed what I already knew (that he could not even name one song), I couldn’t bear to ask about his proximity to a personal icon, that he would be hard pressed to identify if there was a gun to his head.
I’m not sure we ever made it to an encore at a concert. Over the years, we left increasingly earlier. It’s hard to believe I dragged that man twice to Red Rocks to see The Avett Brothers. Although, if I squint my eyes I can see us smiling on a hike, a memory that I can access if I hold very still and suspend my rage. And in hindsight, it makes sense that I lured him there by pressing into his predilection for athleticism.
I remember the last show we went to. Ruston Kelly. October 29, 2021. The Shelter, Detroit. He’d asked me to be the designated driver. This wasn’t uncommon.
It was only fair, penance for his attendance.
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