It was the day after he died that I went for the first time by myself to a live concert. I had never heard of the bands, nor had I ever gone to a club like this. I wasn't even sure what kind of music it would be, I just went. The only assurance I had was that it would be loud and crowded, which was perfect for forgetting.
I didn't remember dressing for it, but I still have the t-shirt, crunchy with sweat and spilled beer and a splash of blood, not mine. I should have felt out of place, being one of the only females, and the only one not in the band who was over forty. The guy at the door asked if I was looking for somebody. It was nice he was willing to let me in to find my kids, but I have no kids. "No. Just one admission, please." I must have had some look on my face because he didn't say any more, but his eyes lingered. The floor was sticky and it smelled like spilled beer and piss even before people started spilling and pissing. When the first band took the stage, I fought my way into the middle and jumped with the crowd, letting the driving bass and thumping drums and screaming vocals take me. That first night, the day after he died, I screamed and cried in the crowd, pushing and shoving against the bodies of the young.
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