meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. viii

I'm still staying at the motel. They think it's weird, but I guess it's not too uncommon for a man who's down on his luck to spend a few days there. The place finally lost power in the storm, still doesn't have it back--they suggested another hotel. I asked if I could stay, just at a discount. They said I could stay for free.

I swear, I saw her at the show tonight. She looked at me, even. Smiled that smile I know I saw at the rest stop. I froze, just stared blankly. Someone walked in front of me, and she was gone. Or maybe she was right there and I didn't recognise her.

After the concert, I talked to the band, but I was really looking around, looking for her. I was fidgeting with the notebook, hoping I could hand it to her and tell her it was hers, tell her I was hers, tell her something. She wasn't there.

The singer asked me if I wanted him to sign the notebook. I said no, probably a little too sharply. I explained, it's not mine. I wouldn't want--and then I stopped. "Sure," I said. "Make it out to Liana."

"Okay. Friend of yours?" he said. "Girlfriend?"

"No," I said. I told him I'd never met her. He gave me a look. He thought I was crazy, I could tell. He dismissed himself. I'd said her name loudly, hoping she'd show up. No luck.

One of the girls from the show invited me to the bar after. I declined, but offered to take her back to the motel. I had a bottle of wine and the power was out, I said. It was seedy and everyone else had left. She said that sounded exciting, told her friends, came home with me.

Well, 'home'. I've been here too long, I'm starting to call this damn place home.