Matthew and I saw Ryan Adams in concert last week, and I’ve had this song in my head ever since. Ryan was alone on a dim stage lit only by a red light, and the concert felt almost raw in how vulnerable each song seemed. It was as though we were all voyeurs watching him strum the guitar or play the piano in the confines of his bedroom.
I so enjoyed being out with Matthew as we haven’t been in so long: my arm wrapped around his, our laughter absorbed by buildings, my heels clicking on the downtown streets. Ryan’s voice was intoxicating, and the night made me want to go home and put on records in the candlelight, drink cheap wine, sit on the floor, and smoke and talk into the slim hours of the dark.
But we are grown-ups now, and so we left the concert early instead, and drove the babysitter home and wrapped our child in a blanket and let our whispers slip into the hardwood floors.
And that was just as lovely, only in a different way.
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