Roger was feeling mellow that night, so he did a set in a stool with his acoustic. He had a headache, that night, but a headache he sorta forgot about for the 45 minutes he was on stage. The tempo stayed up, save for a few requests, but part of Roger really just wanted to go home and go to sleep and forget a large part of his Goddamn life.
And then Anatoly was walking toward him. Some days, he knew he shouls just stop talking to the other man altogether because talking to him and knowing that they'd never be anything was just the kind of torture Roger would inflict on himself. Were he a healthier man with a healthier attitude, maybe he would have just walked by months ago.
"Thanks, Anatoly," Roger said, beaming with a kind of pride that can only be accomplished through covetousness. He began to pack his guitar away with the ease of a repeated task and the care of a prized possession.
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And then Anatoly was walking toward him. Some days, he knew he shouls just stop talking to the other man altogether because talking to him and knowing that they'd never be anything was just the kind of torture Roger would inflict on himself. Were he a healthier man with a healthier attitude, maybe he would have just walked by months ago.
"Thanks, Anatoly," Roger said, beaming with a kind of pride that can only be accomplished through covetousness. He began to pack his guitar away with the ease of a repeated task and the care of a prized possession.