Gig

John was a bit bored to sing this night, he knew about the gig since several months ago, it wasn’t like they got to play that often anyway, but he felt moody and bored and his fingers didn’t quite want to move, as the rest of his body and, possibly, his soul. He’d be happier at home with a beer, or several, listening to Joy Division and The Cure, but that’d prolly make his mood worse. Plus, he wasn’t the type that’d ditch his band to go and get wasted; he wasn’t even sufficiently famous for that. Yet, his fingers moved mechanically and the microphone felt superfluous in his hand. He listened to his own voice as from afar and kinda hoped they’d get to finish earlier but, looking at the audience in the club, that started dancing in the meantime, there wasn’t even a chance. So he did his best to sound at least amused and get it over with. He’d need to drink a lot after and forget everything.

He felt almost grateful that they got away with no encore, they usually did some extra songs more, but the bar had gone out of stout, so they let them stop since they couldn’t sell more. John smiled bitterly, they were like sluts, venue managers used them to sell stuff and threw ‘em away when they were not needed any more. He slowly shrugged. At least he got to do something he liked, if it wasn’t for this bloody mood…

He stood leaning at the wall, then paced around a bit staring at his shoes, waiting for the rest of the band to finish with all the socializing and packing, he only had his mike and monitor, hardly cumbersome things to pack, anyway…

Sighed and lit a ciggie, gawd he needed that, threw his head backwards, leaning at a wall, listening to the noise in the background.

John was too preoccupied thinking about his cigarette and swallowing its’ smoke, it going down into his lungs and out again, mesmerized by the sound of music in his internal PA system, tapping his hand on his thigh, 'twas The Beatles now ..the Walrus, goo goo goo joob.. when his ears informed him he was not alone.

"Lend me a fag?"