Punishing Light

1

The sun was still shining. 2

Outside the hollow brick walls of the Theater Pacific, so much mud and plaster, the sweaty afternoon rays beat down upon the crowds gathering to see the latest sensation. 3

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7:34. 5

I took the microphone in my hands, and stared into it, trying my very hardest to count every pore in the reflective metal of the sound catcher. My mind wandered to thoughts of the electricity surging behind the frail grate in front of me; the membranes that quivered, ready to amplify my voice around a broken down club, all the rage with the bored elite. 6

The polished oak under my polished shoes reflects the harsh stage lights into my polished eyes, aglaze with imperfect doubt. Downcast, a mundane chocolate hue; the shiny browns connect and hold, so I probably look like some painting, lost in thought. That's what they want, I've heard. 7

They think of me as a poet, a perfect specimen of the artist they're afraid to be. A victim of circumstance, glossed and melted under hot light. 8

Whatever haze I cast on myself lifts for a moment, giving me a clear view of the clock on the far wall. 9

7:35. 10

Even more flashes pop my way, permanently fixing the camera's eye on me and my words. My knuckles pale as my grip tightens around the aluminum device of my success. A drum beat from some song or another starts up, and I prepare to let my autopilot shine. 11

But those eyes. 12

How long has he been sitting there? Surely, those beautiful beacons would have been more interesting than the microphone's every detail. They're almost... twinkling. 13

Green, the greenest green I think I've ever taken in; like emeralds? 14

No, these are too good, too perfect; they're like windows, out of some cottage, windows to the most pristine Irish field, rolling hills and all... I can see the moor behind his eyelids. There's even a miniature sky in there, right between the sparkle from the lamp over the table... 15

My throat opens into something more than I've ever heard, tapping into an unseen thread floating over the meadows, into the dark speckled cavern of the theater. Every note is oily, and fluid; has this happened before? I drink his eyes, and give him mine, hoping he likes chocolate. 16

He's biting...17