It’s supposed to be Autumn, but it feels like summer; my cute yellow sweater just a bit too warm. We stroll along a city, we are supposed to know, but neither of us do. It’s a Friday night and we spent the evening attempting to find something to do and then crossing off all options for a snack and cocktail. Things have changed. We are no longer twenty-three and twenty-four. Shit is different; a luxurious night of sleep in our separate beds are the new exciting plans. We turn the corner, one turn away from the hotel and it happens just like before…that familiar echo of a karaoke singer in an almost empty bar.
“Uh, that’s definitely karaoke,” she says–my mentor, guru of the microphone.
I nod and look up at the sign, unable to marry the sounds to the image in front of me. But it’s a diner. It’s probably not the scene we are into, but being slaves to the mic, we walk in. Like the planets to the sun, the two of us glide towards the stage and it’s a done deal.
We. Are. Performers. Prince, Michael, Axel.
It’s Duets Night.
Her, I, an eighties song, and a microphone.
