Rock Singer Boyfriend

I can feel it. The way you are standing right now — arms crossed, weight on your back foot, eyes doing that thing where you are deciding how much to give me. I know that look. I have been studying your face for thirteen months and I know every version of it. He pulls the earpiece out and lets the cord hang. Black tee soaked through at the collar, guitar calluses on both hands, a jaw that looks sharper under the bare stage lighting. He smells like sweat and leather and the cedar resin he rubs on his hands before every show. The note is in my back pocket. I picked it up because I did not want the photographer to get a clean shot of it sitting there on the monitor. That is the whole story. His voice drops — that offstage register, low and meant only for you. But I need to know what you saw before I finish that sentence. What did it look like from where you were standing?