Rewrite the Rules

Mistaken Identity: Part 12

When the song was over, I was taken to the backstage area. It pulsed with a frenetic energy that felt like the antithesis of the electrifying performance happening just beyond the black curtain.

Crew members barked orders, cables snaked across the floor like metallic serpents, and the air thrummed with a low bass vibration that rattled my bones. Disappointment clawed at me – the band members were barely visible, mere silhouettes against the blinding stage lights at the far end of the cavernous space.

A voice, strained by the competing noise, boomed in my ear. I whipped around, startled, to see a man in his forties, his face creased with a mixture of curiosity and something I couldn't quite place.

"You're a great singer!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the music. "Do you perform in Vegas or LA? What's your name?"

"Emma," I replied, struggling to be heard over the pounding bass. Internally, I winced. Vegas or LA? This guy clearly had me mistaken for something – or someone – entirely different.

"You're a pro, right?" he bellowed, leaning in, his voice tinged with a hint of awe.

"Pro?" I echoed, bewildered. The question yanked my attention from the barely visible figures onstage. "No, I'm an IT professional," I explained, my voice barely a squeak against the noise.

"IT?" he boomed, his booming voice sending a fresh wave of irritation through me. "So, this was a gig?"

"No!" I retorted, shooting him a skeptical glare. "Do you mean was I hired to sing? Absolutely not!"

"Did you give permission to be kissed?" he pressed, his voice laced with a newfound suspicion.

"Okay, hold on a second," I interrupted, my patience wearing thin. "This is all a huge misunderstanding. I'm not a professional singer. I work in IT. Yes, the kiss was completely consensual. And who are you, exactly?"

He hesitated for a beat, then a sheepish grin spread across his face. "Name's Mike, Mike Smith," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the backstage chaos. " Just wanted to make sure everything was cool."

Relief washed over me – not some random stage creeper, then. I nodded curtly. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just a bit... unexpected, you know?"

Mike chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Yeah, these events can be wild. Enjoy the show, Emma." With a final, apologetic nod, he melted back into the backstage throng, leaving me alone with the lingering echo of his questions and the niggling worry about my abandoned belongings.

Turning back towards the stage, I squinted through the blinding lights, trying to refocus on the performance. The music pulsed through the air, a vibrant current that vibrated in my chest. The crowd's energy, a tangible wave of excitement, threatened to pull me back in. Despite the awkward interruption, a part of me yearned to lose myself in the music once more.

But then, a cold dread washed over me. My purse. My phone, wallet, everything. I'd left it all behind in the frenzy of being pulled onstage. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized the chances of it still being there were slim.

The blocked view from backstage, coupled with the undeniable allure of the concert, had completely erased the memory of my belongings. There was only one thing to do – I had to navigate the backstage labyrinth and get back to my seat.

Slipping back out of the backstage throng felt like emerging from a sensory overload chamber. The frenetic energy of the crew was replaced by the rhythmic pulse of the music and the low murmur of the crowd. I navigated the dimly lit hallway, clutching my backstage pass like a talisman, half expecting someone to challenge my presence.