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High And Dry — Radiohead

Warm chips spilling out of the day’s newspaper, tight white shoes splattered with flecks of ketchup and my stomach straining against my jeans. I was so desparate to be back inside, I knew that they were pressed together feeling the hum of the bass through their groins, I needed to hear from her – I dropped the chips when my phone buzzed and they floated in the puddle, greasy petals effusing oily rainbows.

Nothing.

Finally the thud of drums and dulled cheers ended as the band went backstage to get lifts home from their parents. The tall metal doors opened and locusts flew out, spinning off down the paths into the woods behind the building, down the steps to the grass hill, down the hatch. Some lingered on the steps, their beetle-like wings subdued by their need to fuck, searching for a mate for the night. I was stood under the large oak tree just to the left waiting for her, passing the time with idle cigarettes and scuffing mud on my shoes to clean off the ketchup, goosebumps under my long blue sleeves. I was close to leaving when I saw her. My breath rose as she emerged alone, her lack of company making her even more beautiful, and then it crashed down when I saw an arm snake through the dark and curl itself around her waist, she turned and a hand unfurled like a cloud of smoke and rested on her lower back (the lowest possible part), it pulled her in and she was gone, lost among the locusts, taking a part of me with her.

I think I went home and posted a Myspace bulletin about betrayal. I think I sent a link to a Regina Spektor song (her favourite) and bemoaned the futility of love. I think I promised myself that next time I saw him I would punch him in his fucking teeth. I thought, I mused, I wondered and pondered but I didn’t actually do anything – not that it would have helped (she might have still loved me). The shoes were ruined and I lost that blue t-shirt a few months later, those jeans haven’t fit me in years, I haven’t listened to Regina Spektor until she sang the Orange is the New Black intro and I certainly haven’t visited The Forum since – but most importantly I never found those goosebumps again. Fucking locusts.

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