An Infatuation

There was approximately four-feet separating you from her. She was sitting on a stool playing songs for us seated on the floor or in folding chairs in the small, intimate audience. Your legs were crossed and your eyes lay straight ahead, rarely blinking. Then your smile–it seemed positioned there by hypnosis or paralysis. It never quivered, it never faltered, if anything it got wider as she continued to play. You began to sweat profusely as the lone guitar strummed through “Cowgirl in the Sand”. I wanted to take my finger and rub it over your wide, gleaming teeth to see if you’d notice but I was told that probably wasn’t a good idea. When she’d finished we all clapped but you gave a standing ovation, beaming over her like you’d just found the Holy Grail lying on the ground.