By Lee Todd Lacks
The lights turn an impossible shade of violet when we’re up on stage playing for a maskless crowd in the back room of a bar in downtown Pittsburgh and everyone’s hip to hip so tight you’d swear it was 2019, and the girl who sings in the band we open for is wearing this striking plum-colored minidress with matching tights and she’s playing a vintage Roland Jupiter 8 and every song hits me square in the amygdala and to my great surprise she seems genuinely engaged when I get up the nerve to talk to her in between sets, and there’s a balance in acid and akaline, and I’m feeling hopeful when she enters my number into her fuchsia iPhone “That’s where we’re staying” she declares exuberantly when I mention the band’s hotel accommodations Later that night, when the hedonism in Room 471 begins to mellow out like the smoky grape Sangeovese that some of the boys and girls are drinking, I seize my chance to creep two floors down, to her room, that she isn’t sharing with anyone, yet, and she’s waiting and I’m so excited I can’t believe I’m awake and after a few perfunctory pleasantries and an animated discussion about our favorite synth pop bands from the 1980’s, things get really quiet and there’s a kiss, a long, luscious kiss the kind of kiss a girl gives when she wants you to stop wondering whether or not you ought to reach around and up and under and so, I do and in a Pittsburgh minute those plum-colored tights come down and she’s humming a nameless song and her panties are lavender (in case you were curious) and they’re damp and sweetly fragrant like her lips “You mind if I turn off the light? I promise I won’t lose you.” she says. I can’t see Plum, anymore but my God, can I touch and smell and taste her.
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