Those Weekends In New England

Prologue

Does the music make the man, or does the man make the music?

"I'm lookin' for the lady,

The lady who sees.

I'm lookin' for the lady,

The lady who sees

What I really am

And what I could really mean

...To her."

Peter couldn't force the words from his mind. He didn't like this song, he hated this song, and Hannah had been singing it all afternoon. Now the words rang over and over inside his head, jeering at him, hitting grotesque levels of noise. Making fun of him, that's what those words were doing.

Was he slowly losing his mind?

Hannah, sitting to Peter's left, her eyes searching every corner of that stage, was twiddling. He called her movements twiddling, anyway, when she drummed her fingers on the nearest surface. This time she was using her armrest, the one they shared.

"She would be... all worlds to me...." The words of that damn song would not leave him alone. He studied his wife, feeling his features contort. Why the hell did I come to this concert? She doesn't care if I'm here. I'm only her chauffeur. Denny Lorenzo... he's on her mind right now. Too much.

They were amidst a crowd kept waiting twenty minutes beyond scheduled show time to see the famous Denny Lorenzo perform. Flickers of matches, foot stomping, whistling, chants of "We want Denny! We want Denny!" filled Peter's ears until, with a loud growl Hannah seemed not to notice, he pushed himself up to the edge of his seat, all the while biting his lower lip in rapid nibbles. He wanted to stop feeling this way, but he couldn't help himself. His anger always bubbled up like this lately. Especially when Hannah was involved. He wanted to control himself. He really did. He really tried.

Maybe he should just leave. He could come back for her, if he had to. If he didn't watch her watch that idiot on the stage, maybe he could cool off.

This idea became a solid decision, his only option if he wanted to stay rational, so he took hold of the armrests, ready to stand. Right that moment, as if in ridicule, the clamor of the crowd careened to a screech, the house lights dimmed and a voice, seeming to float out of the recently painted night sky, finally announced the arrival of Denny Lorenzo.

The crowd went berserk.

Lorenzo's steps were slow as he walked onto the stage of the spread-out, open-air arena. Peter was sure the man calculated every footfall. He watched the singer's face draw into itself. Lorenzo touched the fingertips of his left hand to his forehead, and the answering din from his fans was deafening.

Peter felt his ears warm with jealousy as women, all kinds of women, from teenagers in minute leather skirts to their sixty-ish, pleated-skirt counterparts, screamed for their man.

Denny Lorenzo. Stuff erotic dreams were made of.

Shit.

Lorenzo's name in fancy, bright white lights appeared right above him, slowly lowering from the rafters of the stage. He looked up, exhaled a smile as if embarrassed, and laughed between words. "I gotta have this thing with me," he pointed at the huge, twinkling letters, "or I forget who I am!"

Peter snorted. Everyone else applauded, with suggestive catcalls heard throughout. Grinning, sagging-breasted women hugged other grinning, sagging-breasted women. Barely pubescent females who had to touch the closest piece of flesh able to grow facial hair grabbed the nearest man, any man, whether or not she knew him.