Twelve Feet Deep

I didn’t see her again until we played a show somewhere in La Grange. I only remember that because Joe kept singing the ZZ Top song by the same name all the way to the venue. (He was more than a little drunk. So much for our straightedge street cred.)

The way the place was set up was like a basement. There were Christmas lights strung everywhere and broken-in couches lining the walls. It was cramped and musty, but it was a place we could call home.

This was our last summer as regular nobodies in the underground hardcore scene and we were milking it for all it was worth. After this year, whether our endeavors proved to be successful or not, we’d be considered too big for the small town we grew up in. I could already hear the future accusations of “Sellouts!” when it would eventually become cool to hate us. It was inevitable; that was what happened when you got signed to a major record label. Fate never failed to disappoint.

But those cruel realities were barely a glimmer in our eyes. We hadn’t even begun to think about new music or what it would mean to release a debut album or how our sound would undoubtedly evolve. We couldn’t even comprehend the actuality that we’d got signed, for Christ’s sake, we were out of here. We were like gods to those kids who pushed their way to the front just to scream along the words to our sweaty faces.

She wasn’t one of them. I was never anything special to her, but somehow, that was exactly what I wanted. I’d learned to stop searching for faces in the crowd and that’s when she came looking for me.

When our set was done and all our shit was packed up as the next band took the stage, I acquainted myself with a couch in the back of the room, bobbing my head along to the music with Chris and Patrick beside me. Andy had randomly disappeared, Joe was God knows where, and she was by the wall opposite me, hanging around a group of people next to a broken jukebox, looking disinterested in whatever they were discussing. I had to blink twice just to make sure it was really her.

The word confused struck me again. She looked like Michael Jordan and Kurt Cobain had a love child and convinced her it was still the 90’s. Black tank top, cutoff jean shorts with a flannel shirt tied around her waist and a backwards Chicago Bulls cap on her head. The Fuck Me red lipstick had made its comeback.

It was like a sensor went off in her brain. She caught my eye immediately, both of our gazes unwavering, as if we’d telepathically began a staring contest. The smirk she blazoned that night on the roof was gone, replaced with a curious expression, almost child-like. I was half expecting her to innocently cock her head and observe me with inquisitive nature when she took a step forward, testing the waters. Neither of us broke eye contact. And so she began her fearless stride, marching right up to where I sat on that old couch, spent from exacerbating fatigue on the stage.

It happened in less than a split second and escalated even faster. I blinked and suddenly she was in my lap, clutching my jaw as she connected her mouth to mine. I should’ve been startled, pushing this stranger off and demanding why she was kissing me, but for some reason, I didn’t. Instead, I relaxed my momentarily stunned body and returned the gesture, gripping her and pulling her into me as I ignored Chris and Patrick’s bewilderment: What the hell? Is that the girl who jumped off my roof?

I couldn’t keep up with her, but she tasted like heaven. I got lost in the haze of the blaring music and her foreign lips, feeling like I was drifting into another world altogether. Time was subjective, skewing reality until she pulled away from me.

She was always moving too fast for me to comprehend.

It all came to a halt just as quickly as it started. She’d vanished from my lap, now standing directly in front of me, staring at me in the dim light of the aftermath. Her lipstick was smeared around her mouth, dark and red, making her look like a lioness who’d just feasted upon her prey. I probably appeared just as gruesome.

I attempted to run an absentminded hand through my hair, only to realize that her hat was now on my head. I’m still not sure how it was transferred during our sudden exchange, but then, she always was one step ahead of me. I was about to take it off and give it back to her (Can you imagine? “Thanks for the random makeout session, here’s your hat back”), but by the time it was in my hands, she was gone. Always fleeing. I felt dizzy.

“Dude,” Chris spoke up over the music, looking both puzzled and highly amused, “Who was that?”

I shook my head in awe, wondering the same thing. The image of her jumping off that roof was burned into my brain, making nervous sweat bead on my skin. I swallowed and turned to where she’d just stood with blood decorating her lips like a phantom succubus. My own personal Lilith.

“I don’t know.”