Breakneck

You count out the days and watch with delight as the numbers tick off one by one. It seemed close at a month, then a week. Now it's four, three, two, one.

And, at one, you want to hold the clock. Don't let it be that day quite yet. Despite whatever lay ahead - whether grandiose or dreadful - it can't possibly be as vivid, as charged as what continues to charge your imagination. The brightness of it can't be tinged by reality already, because you're having too much fun coming up with what could be.

But the day arrives and the countdown is converted to hour form. You draft lists of possibilities, casually look around for a familiar face as you walk on crowded streets downtown. You begin to break the day and afternoon into units of activity which will best provide a diversion between Now and Then. You rush to make sure you have enough time, then realize you need to stretch things out and kill the time you didn't anticipate.

Sangria proves a brilliant way to pass the time.

When the hours become minutes, you force yourself away from thinking about It and start thinking about Them. The others who will be joining you for the event. You sit at a full-length pane of glass and watch others walk by.

"Yes." The girl walks up the street. Small handbag, dark-rimmed glasses, jubilant smile. She'll be there.
"No." Carrying a backpack and a laptop. Too much baggage.
"Yes. But because of her. He doesn't want to, but he's playing the good boyfriend." He tries to force away a scowl as they pass, holding hands.
"Yes, but he's trying to downplay the fact that he's as excited as she is. He made sure to buy the tickets so they got the best possible seats." They are both beaming and quickly moving by.
"No, no, no, no, no." As a group meanders past.

Your friend sips coffee. "Do you think we'd be pegged as Yes's or No's?"

You pause to think about it. "No's if they just saw us sitting here. Yes's if they listened to us for five minutes."

The game ascends to the next level - Yes or No, with Yes's broken down into T or M. Reason for attending.

With less than a half hour, you join the flow of pedestrians and walk through the spitting snow/sleet/rain to the theater. Two buses parked out front, trailed by a van with California license plates. You find your tickets, hold them out and are welcomed into the small, low-ceilinged lobby. You both want to see where you'll be sitting, and enter the performance space. You present your tickets, you are told to move closer and ask the next usher. Again and again until you look at the two acoustic guitars, microphone and monitor that wait for use from their place ahead and to your left. About six rows away - and a close six rows.

You both sit in your seats to take in the view and start to laugh with delight. You take off your jackets and lean back in the chairs. The lights go black, a spotlight appears cast against the black curtain and a spiky-haired figure emerges with a grin.

And now you're standing at North Station at quarter past eleven. The event sped along before your eyes with the same speedy pace, and it is now moving just as quickly into your memory.

You remind yourself to write about the reflection of her hands in the glossy sheen of the piano. The smile that spread across your face as you sang along with your favorite of his lyrics. Where their eyes were directed when they spoke. The laughter that came from your row when the chorus you'd jokingly sung for two days actually coursed through the speakers. The songs you'd appreciate more now that you've experienced them live.

You await the arrival of your ride and rub your hands over your arms to try to warm up. The sparkle of the previous anticipation has been replaced by its duller, cloudy counterparts - the promise of an early morning and a long drive.

But you have a rendition of "Happy Phantom" stuck in your head.