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He Was a Rock Star

by Kate Mehrer

I was a beautiful woman and he was rock star. That’s just the truth. We weren’t exactly destined to meet, but these kinds of people do gravitate towards each other, and I hoped that would be the case with us. Trouble was, I was tall and he was short. I mean really short. Five foot standing at attention. But when he took that stage, man he was dynamic. He was sexy, he was charismatic, he was bold, dangerous, everything a rock star should be. His music was great too, and it made me want to dance. Made me have to dance. Trouble was, when I danced I looked like a broken marionette standing in the aisle during a plane crash.

After the concert, I snuck backstage and lurked around. I didn’t know yet that he was short. On stage he seemed huge, larger than life. I was trying to strike a sexy pose, leaning on the door jam, cocktail in hand, in this backstage room that was colossal. The whole band was in there plus the press. From across the room, I caught his eye, still not realizing that his size wasn’t just a trick of perspective.

As he approached, he looked me up and down. I mentally checked my outfit, thinking, “tight dress, no-show undies, hip go-go boots, stylish earrings . . . I’m good.” But then he looked away, started checking out other girls. He was close enough then that I began to see him in relation to everyone else. I realized that he’d have to stand on a chair to kiss me, that he was about to pass right under my stylishly cocked elbow. I desperately cast around for a chair, thinking “No! no! Don’t let him pass me by!”

There wasn’t any chair, just a weird black box, so I quickly sat on it. Then, suddenly, he came right towards me. I could see he had changed his mind. I could see he wanted to talk to me. I thanked all the deities I had ever heard of. I prepared my dazzling smile. Finally he got close.

I held out my hand, said “Pleased to meet you. I’m Gwendolyn,” even though my name is Jane.

“You the one dancing like a spazoid?”

“Uh, yeah. That would be me.” I laughed my disarming musical laugh.

Then he cocked his head and for all the world it looked like he was checking out my rear. I mean I was sitting, but he looked like he was checking out my hip, kind of, and I was thinking this was a good sign. I smiled real big. Usually that works on any guy. One smile and they’re mine. But this one just stood there.

Then he said, “Okay. Whatever. But I gotta tell ya’ something babe. Something important.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Don’t sit on the amp!”

Ah well . . . the one that got away.


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