Rushing Whispers

    It has been six days since the incident in Manchester. The mood within the group had shifted slightly after Friday’s show, but only lasted until we began to set up for the following day’s show in Liverpool.      Cameron later told me that he had spoken to everyone together, while I was in the bus looking for an item I’d misplaced, and gave them a brief and simplified version of what had caused me to act in that way. It put everyone at ease to know what had triggered it, though Willie still wouldn’t look me in the eye and we had barely exchanged more than a cursory glance at each other since.       Tonight we were in London, for the first of two nights at a fairly prestigious venue for a prog rock band to perform at. We were all backstage while Riot Men performed; either having a drink, smoking, sitting, or all three.      I glanced sidelong at Willie, who had just entered the room with a woman in tow, an...

    Having had Thursday to spend doing nothing in particular was a small blessing. By the time we got to Manchester around three o’clock Friday afternoon, the road crew were busy setting up the equipment. I hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know any of them except for Neil, who doubled as the stage-side technician in the event something needed to be adjusted while the band was performing.      To occupy the time we had before soundcheck, Cameron and I decided to eat at a small restaurant nearby. Three blocks from the venue, two teenagers crossed the street and called out to us.      “Are you Cameron Thom?” the taller one asked nervously.      “I am,” Cameron answered.       The two boys beamed. “My name’s David, and this is my friend Dave.”      Cameron extended his hand and smiled. “Well, you know who I am. This is Emily.”      We shook hands with the boys and Dav...

    The last note echoed through the venue, Dale shouting “good night!” before they left the stage. Throngs of hyped fans tried to push past the hired security to get into the backstage area but were kept back.      We were all excited tonight, not only because the show had been a roaring one and bode well for the rest of the English tour, but because we had hotel rooms booked for the night. With everyone too excited with the prospect of sleeping in a bed instead of a reclined coach seat, we didn’t linger backstage as usual.      I would have been happy with a budget motel, so when we entered the nondescript and clean hotel and went to our respective rooms, I was still pleased.      I took my shoes off before going through our small suitcase of overnight necessities. I went into the washroom to brush my teeth and then my hair, and took my bra off with a happy groan before I changed into a nightshirt and walked ba...

    It was early evening when Cameron and I made our way to the bedroom. The English portion of the tour would start tomorrow, followed by our trip over the Channel to France.      “Run it by me again,” I told Cameron as I changed into a pyjama top.      “Well,” he accepted, “we’ve got a coach for the road, and should be in hotels most nights. I’d suppose that sometimes we’ll need to sleep on the bus, driving overnight to the next city.”      “Doesn’t sound that bad.”      Cameron took his shirt off and tossed it into the laundry basket. “It’s not,” he agreed. “But it will be more bearable this time, with you beside me.”       A smile spread across my face but before I could kiss him, the phone in the hallway rang.      Cameron left the room and answered on the third ring. Too curious for my own good, I leaned against the bedroom door’s frame and watched him.  ...

    “You’ll be glad to know,” Cameron told me as he walked into the house, “the album cover is being printed as we speak.” He closed the door behind him and set the bag down on the table.      “Where did you hear that? The print shop?” I quipped.      “Nearly. I stopped by Willie’s flat on the way back,” Cameron explained as I walked up to him.      “Did he have anything else to say?” I began to unpack the bag he’d come in with and lifted one of the items. “A single plastic flower?”      “For my aunt. I’ve given her one every year on her birthday, since my mom passed. She’s got a bouquet now,” he chuckled, then paused for a moment. “It’s been sixteen years.”      “That’s very sweet of you to do,” I smiled. “I’m sure she appreciates it. What date is her birthday?”      “The nineteenth.”      “A nice summer birthday,” I noted.      By one o’clock C...