See With Your Hands

Usually during shows I twirl programs into little cylinders, one way and then the other-- a sort of counter-roll. Tonight all I have is a ticket stub. Usually said stub would quickly find a home in my back pocket so that, by the end of the night the lettering's not worn down from the oils of my fingers, but from the friction of material on either side and the curve of my posterior-- molded perfectly to the subtle creases of denim-- maybe, if the stub's too long, the top will stick out and fray from rubbing against the bottom of my belt.

Tonight, however, said stub sits in front of me, slipping between my fingers, my thumb memorizing every perforation, gliding over the glossy stock of blue and white and black and grey and a sort of almost-mustard yellow-- not quite maize-- all I can compare it to is the golden rod of the Green Bay Packers. But I'm not reading the seat number or headliner or date or venue. I'm not even looking down or concentrating all that intently on the ticket. Rather, I've closed my eyes so I can feel the percussion swell up from the floor and my seat and I'm trying to picture how you would hold this ticket stub--if you would risk folding it instead of gingerly bending and rolling. Then my mind wanders further--what if I were that stub?

How would your hands feel running over mine? Would your calloused fingers even know if mine were smooth? Would you trace your forefinger across my jaw line before simultaneously leaning in and drawing me closer with your other hand- first against my hip, then sliding toward my spine, ending in the small of my back, just under the edge of my shirt-- as you guide me closer and closer still? Would you give more attention to my warm, supple skin than this glossy, multi-colored stock? Would you recklessly fold, tear and gnaw at me, or thoughtfully bend, twist and trace my outline--memorizing every dimple and curve not with your eyes, but with the tips of your fingers? Would you take me home and place me on your bed side table so you could reminisce on our time together from the time you turn off your alarm clock at the break of day until the time you lay your head back down in the silence of the night? Or, would I be quickly ushered into your back pocket~ to be inadvertently molded and frayed, forgotten past laundry day only to be tossed away with the lint-trap-residue? For that matter, if I were that ticket, would you even bother to come to the show at all?