Hamartia

To say that the show was amazing would be just putting it lightly. The crowd was evidently so into it that you couldn't help but marvel at how passionate the band was at what they were doing.

It wasn't so long before the crowd dissipated, expect for some who was led backstage. I anxiously looked around for help. I just needed to get this over with.

“Um, hi.” I mumbled. “How can I meet the, um, band?”

The same person who let me in was looking down at me and if his height wasn't enough to scare me, his stiff posture compensated. “Do you have meet and greet passes, miss?”

I felt stupid. “Oh.”

“May I see your ticket?”

I fished for the piece of paper inside my bag and after feeling a set of keys, some spare coins, and a half-eaten bar of Snickers, I finally found the ticket. He flipped it over and looked at me, smiled, and made a face, a semblance of a bald man saying, “Not bad, not bad.”

He gave me back my ticket, which I absentmindedly put back in my bag, and asked me to follow him.

I would have just told him to send my thanks to the bassist but doing that would be like turning down an invitation to meet an amazing band so I let him lead me to a dimply-lit hallway. For a split-second I thought he was about to end my life right then and there but he opened a door before me and motioned for me to enter. Maybe he'd save it for later.

“The band will be finished with the meet and greet session in a while. Just stay here for the mean time.” He turned to the door after making sure I was seated on the couch when he looked at me again. “He falls too hard, that guy.”

“I don't know who you are talking about?”

He chuckled, more like to himself. “Garrett.” With that, he saluted me and left me wondering whatever he was trying to say.

There were Alternative Press magazines strewn on a coffee table just in front of me and since a lamp or a white, stucco wall couldn't entertain me, I grabbed a copy and made myself comfortable. Or at least I tried to. I was too preoccupied with the thought that he might not even remember me and he'd just probably laugh at my face, along with his band mates, or maybe something equally horrifying but then I remembered: The impression I made yesterday was too strong to be forgotten in the span of twenty-four hours.

I was in the brink of tearing a page and writing a thank you and sorry note for the fan boy because I wasn't born to just sit and wait in uncertainty but three and a half issues of AP magazines later, a group of boys came bustling in and the smell of sweat filled the room. I quickly got up and stared back at the four sets of eyes questioning my presence.

I couldn't think of anything more idiotic to say. “So this is how rockstars smell like?”

After a few seconds of silence that seemed to have stretched to eternity, they all cracked up.

I did not expect that.

The chubby one was still recovering from his laughter when he turned to his band mates and said, “She's definitely a keeper. Who's guest is she?”

What I said wasn't even funny. Did it have something to do with my face?

Before anyone could answer, another guy came in hurriedly and as our eyes locked, he relaxed. He seemed so genuinely happy.

“There you are.” The Ryan Adams fan boy grinned.

“Um, yeah.”

Silence hung in the air as the other guys tried to decipher what was going on and truth to be told, I was doing the same thing because as soon as his eyes landed on mine, I felt my breath get caught up in my throat and never in my life have I had my heart beating so inhumanly fast.

“I'm sorry, I should have never intruded. I actually just wanted--”

“You're more than welcome to hang out with us...” The lanky guy who was now topless quirked an eyebrow at me. I tried to ignore his lack of garment that made me blush but I was sure as hell he noticed how uneasy I was getting. And he was apparently enjoying every second of it.

“Robin.”

Another guy whose height, like that lanky dude, intimidated me to no end, spoke up. “Well you're more than welcome to steal my heart, Robin.”

“I was about to say that first!” The long-haired guy whined. He turned to me with an excited expression. “I want to keep you and put you in my pocket and feed you with sugar cubes and we can play dress up and watch My Little Pony everyday!”

There was something so absurd about this that I began to laugh without realizing it. I was then introduced to each one of them in courtesy of the fan boy.

“This is John,” The lanky dude, vocalist. “Pat,” The long-haired guy, drummer. “That's Kennedy,” The other tall dude, guitarist. “And this is Jared.” The chubby one, guitarist, was held by the shoulders by the fan boy, who finally introduced himself as Garrett, bassist.

“So you're the bassist, huh?” I said casually, a smirk tugging on my lips.

“Disappointed?” He teased, remembering his remark yesterday.

“Actually, yes. I was expecting someone as hot as Michael Cera.” I tried to look serious but the smile I tried to hide made its way to my lips before I even noticed.

Garrett feigned hurt by clutching his heart dramatically. “You're denting my ego, Robin. Michael Cera isn't even hot.”

My eyes narrowed at him threateningly. “Say that again.”

“Yeah, Garrett. Say that again and you will be castrated in no time.” John intervened. The rest snickered in the background.

Garrett seemed to take note of this by nodding. “Would you like to have a coffee or something?” He inquired hopefully.

“Right now?”

His eyes lit up. “Yeah.”

“No. You stink.” I wrinkled my nose in fake disgust.

There was boisterous laughter in the room and it came from everyone except Garrett.

He was just giving me this galvanizing stare and smiling and it was either you find that as one of the perfect things or you're blind. He shook his head slowly, never breaking his gaze from mine.

“You're something else, Robin.”

I smiled back because I was thinking of exactly the same damned thing about him.