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Your Second Call photo

I should have called out, “Marry me,” followed by your name, in that quarter-second of dead air.
Nothing too prosaic, nothing too provocative, just four beats, a stunted swirl of “M”s and “R”s.
My only regret of the evening was that I did not.
My brother and I watched your brother and you on stage for hours, through the load out. You
spoke, thanking us, before the penultimate movement, and then that quarter-second of
opportunity filled the air between us. I opened my mouth. I drew my breath. But.
I didn’t really want the marriage of a stranger, and I didn’t want laughs, and I didn’t want fame. I
might have wanted to make my brother admire me. I did want to extend, embrace the connective
tissue that had so tenderly held thousands of us as one.
Instruments began, and I exhaled, and looked over at my crying brother.