playing with the air // m.h.

soft sound // part one

// s o f t s o u n d // pt one

Bodies buzzed around me, busy people rushing for work or filling their stomachs so they could continue their labor. I'll never understand people whom have a drive for corporate jobs. My hands are shoved deep inside my heavy jacket as my eyes scan the warm drink choices of the slow paced secretaries. The rubber soles of my maroon boots pat the pavement as I weave through the endless London bodies, a black, patch-covered backpack hanging off my shoulders and a large guitar case occupying only the right side. Despite being such a small person carrying such large items, I attract no attention—a talent I've mastered within my time in this city.

My steady pace starts to slow as I reach The O2, slithering my way to the back of the building where I slip through an adjacent door. No, I'm not breaking into the O2 (worst case, even if I didn't have permission to be here the door was open). My eyes scan the corridor for a familiar bottle blond, smirking when I zone in on the target. He stood against a corner, chatting to someone with a headset while pointing to a clip board in a very dominant manner. I chuckle to myself as I notice the headset boy was dressed head to toe in "backstage black" while blondie stood in his white long sleeve (probably print with profanity on the front), ripped skinnies, bright red vans and matching backwards hat. What a douche, I chuckled to myself. With my load still on my back I creep up to him, gently pinching at his back as the stage hand walks off to take care of whatever.

"Oh shit-Des!" He whips around, nearly planting the clipboard—and an elbow—across my face. "You have to be more vocal, damn it!" He let out a heavy you'll-be-the-death-of-me sigh.

"Good morning to you too, Ashy," my smirk only broadens as I look up at my over 6 foot friend.

"Actually its afternoon now," he starts off with his long strides, ushering me to follow.

I slip my phone out of my pocket, "1:03pm. I count that as a thorough win, Ash"

"Where'd you hit up last night? I never heard the door." We began up the back stairs, only us two now.

"Some pub," I shrug despite the weight starting to hurt my shoulders, "no booze, but I did pick up a few spliffs." He picks up on my growing discomfort and slides a hand under the case strap, pulling it onto his own broad shoulder. "Oh now I simply must share with you," I chuckle.

"Obviously," he rolls his golden eyes. We idly chat about the patrons at said pub and how I saw a whole group of girls with colored fishnets ("How 80's" "Perhaps a comeback?" "Unlikely"), until we get up to the second tier of seating. In the center of the O2, a stage was being set up, though we only saw the back part of it while hidden in the shadows. I plop my bag down into one of the empty seats in the dead center of the blocked off section, Asher setting my case in the next.

"Who's playing tonight?" I begin to peel out of the black jacket that was keeping me warm in the winter air, revealing my distressed army green long sleeve that was vastly over sized for my small, barely over five foot frame.

"Some band, they're not too bad, Sam the tech was gushing about them earlier." He stuck a finger into one of the shirt's holes on the shoulder, wiggling around, from his seated position. "Though I hear they're bit of a rowdy bunch and attract quite the teen girl scene."

"Explains why Sam likes them, she's a sucker for pretty boys." I begin to gather my long, thick hair between my pale hands at the back of my head, flipping over and securing it into a sloppy pony, the black and blonde halves blending together. "I planned on napping anyhow."

"Are those my socks?" Asher pointed at the grey cotton that layered over my "knee-ripped" leggings.

"Probably, the heels are halfway up my calves right now," I slip my pack out of jacket's pocket, grabbing a cig between my teeth and pulling it out before turning the box towards Asher so he can slide one out.

"Gross," he mumbles before sucking in, "You promise to behave up here? I have to get back down and finish bossing everyone about."

"You act like anyone ever even knows I'm up here," I gesture around to the empty section and the stagehands that have been carrying stuff from the loading docks to the platforms like ants in a line this entire time.

"Text me your location at 1, alright?" He gives me a worried dad look.

"Alright," I grin up at him, finishing off my cigarette before pulling out my laptop and a fleece blanket, watching him disappear back to his duties.

It probably wouldn't fly at any other job, but I love visiting Asher at work, he made sure any location had a getaway spot. We've been best friends since we were seven and he had just moved with his family from Manchester to Cincinnati, Ohio, a definite downgrade if you ask me. I had teased him about his accent when we were little, but after we moved together to London I realized that he had become so Americanized compared to these thick posh voices. I remember back when we'd sit together in his bedroom, covered in shitty band posters and half nude girls mind you, and I'd point out when he'd pronounce his "R's" funny. Asher has always been there for me, when I was an angst-y teen and when I was an unhappy adult that thought running away to a different country was what I needed. His family was darling, supporting his extravagant move with me. He quickly picked up his job at the O2, while I remained low key at a locally owned coffee shop near our flat. I couldn't think of anything we didn't do together, smoking, partying, adventuring, he's my partner in crime (though it seemed like I was the only one who caused any trouble). I don't talk to a lot of people from London, near none actually. Asher, my boss, my dealer—

"Destry!" my attention is snapped down to the area between the back of the stage and where the maze of halls begins, a tall mousy haired boy waved up at me.

"Ello River!" I mock a posh accent as I wave gentle down to him, my other hand playing with the cool metal of my nostril and septum.

He beamed a smile up at me that could tan a valley girl with its brightness before continuing back to his task.

And River, but River was different, he's a sweet boy who works with Asher, similar in appearance except for his sweet indie style (complete with knit sweaters) and heavily tattooed arms and legs. We've hung out a few times, including Asher and sometimes a few others, shared a spliff or two and just chatted about simple things.

I cozy myself up in my blanket with my laptop perched on my legs as I start up the new blog chapter—"Bright Fishnets + Dark Pubs" the next piece in my adventures.

After awhile I start to groan awake, having drifted off after I uploaded the new chapter, to the sounds of cheers and loud conversations. After a quick stretch I pick up my iphone, checking through the new texts:

Ashy:

You still okay?

I'll just assume youre dead and I get to keep your cereal.

Have you seen the band yet? Their fitting room has been emitting a very interesting smell.

You gotta check them out the drummer is like seven feet tall and the vocalist has the coolest hair.

I smile at the texts, trying to imagine a seven foot tall drummer standing next to Asher. Then the picture of him walking up to the vocalist and telling him he has "the coolest hair" caused me to laugh out loud.

Me:

The cocoa pebbles are still mine and easy there Sam, your boy crush is showing!

I top it off with a quick kissy face before turning my attention to the back of the stage, where a guitar, piano, and soft voice had started to pick up, causing an uproar from the crowd.

"Ello, my name is Matty and we're The 1975."

It was a nice sound actually, I couldn't compare it to much else I listened to, but I wound up leaving my headphones out the entire show and somberly listening to the mixture of upbeat music and serious lyrics, scrolling through different apps on my phone.