The crypt door creaks to reveal a yawning entrance. Mist crawls across the moonlit graveyard, casting a vague silver shadow onto the rough hewn cross. Burial site.
She walks across the cemetery, garden planted with human seeds producing a crop of crosses; it is the short cut to the comfort of home. She starts at the creak, spins around and catches her foot. She falls, ankle twisted.
Out of the mist, in caped splendour, he rises…
She buries her head in his chest.
Jeez, what a way to spend your Thursday night. Sat in a dusty, decrepit cinema. Your nervous date sending messages of tension deep into your subconscious.
Stomach muscles tighten.
A bad “B” movie could only cause indigestion, not fear. The nerves are for tomorrow, but all is prepared.
Our first gig, I wonder if it will really be alright on the night?
Just remember the words, give them your all; all they can ask for is a night to remember. But that is not until tomorrow, try to forget until then.
Tonight just try to get her home, into your bed.
Throw all your nervous energy into making love, take advantage of the cuddles she will want to protect her from the night.
Tomorrow belongs to tomorrow.
Tonight is for love.
Stardom calls, just don’t fall. One step at a time.
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan