“I saw you once, long ago, standing on the stage.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Were you happy then?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my eyes locked on the whisky glass. I won’t look at her. “I was too busy to think about it. Things move so slowly now. Time’s stopped for me.”
She doesn’t ask any more questions, just leaves, leaves me alone to the darkness of my obscurity. Was I happy then, singing my songs to strangers? Happier, maybe, just for singing, singing and dreaming, dreaming their cheering was love. I dreamed I was loved, but I’m not dreaming now.