The Rockstar

He felt the heat of the lights before he saw them.

That soft, warm weight on his shoulders. The crowd was out there somewhere, quiet but alive. He didn’t look up. Not yet.

He flexed his fingers. The calluses were still there. Good. The guitar hung against him just right. He rolled the pick between his fingers until it sat the way he liked.

Someone backstage whispered something he didn’t catch. Didn’t matter.

The mic stand waited. The room waited. He waited.

Then the house lights dipped.

A hush moved through the place. Not silence. Just that tight, buzzing quiet right before something big happens.

He stepped forward. One breath. Then another.

He lifted the guitar. Neck smooth. Strings ready. He hit the first chord.

It rang out warm and full, and the whole room leaned in. For a moment, he wasn’t older. Wasn’t tired. Wasn’t anything but the sound.

Then a woman near the front pulled off her bra and threw it toward the stage. It hit him in the face.

The lights flashed white.

Everything popped.

And he was back in his garage.

Cold floor. Buzzing bulb. The amp let out a low squelch, the kind it made when the cable wasn’t seated right.

His dog barked once, sharp and confused.

Something soft hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.

From the kitchen, his wife yelled, “Put that in the wash when you’re done, ‘Eddie’.”

He looked down. Her bra lay on the concrete. The pick was on the floor. The cable hung loose from the jack.

He sighed, bent down, picked up the bra, set it aside, then pushed the cable in until it clicked. “Ready for the encore?” he said softly.

The dog tilted his head.

He sat on the hamper and strummed one soft chord. It buzzed. It wasn’t pretty. But he closed his eyes anyway.

And for a second, the crowd came back.