I’m on the platform of the Waterloo & City line, waiting for the next train to Bank. The crowds are pulsing around me but I’m alone, listening through bassy in-ear headphones to Lucius’ ‘Something About You’. Only a small part of me is aware that people might see me moving to the beat, mouthing the lyrics, moments of ecstasy occasionally playing across my features. That’s because I’m only half there; the other half of me is in the future, on a dancefloor at my birthday party, plotting out a path for love.
Follow me, just trust me – it’s gonna be a good thing for us.
Those synths must have been born in the 80s. The whole thing has a Madonna vibe I can’t pretend not to like. It also has that killer cadence at the end of each verse, the one which floors me every time, and a rhythm section to rival Shania Twain’s rock’n’roll years.
Let me lead – believe me, we’re gonna be just fine, I promise.
The speaker system at the George Tavern is mine. Amy Winehouse is playing; I’m in the smoking area, laughing, flirting and drinking. So many of my nearest and dearest are here with me, but I would have been happy with just the music. Nevertheless, I’m outside with the man who gives the music meaning, and that’s what matters.
He’s on a good night – cheerful, friendly, drinking quickly and talking easily. The jokes come thick and fast. As he dissolves into his boyish laugh, I can’t help but touch him on the most fragile pretext. My hands wander gently up to his arm, his chest. He doesn’t encourage them, but nor does he bat them away. He keeps smiling, laughing, engaging my gaze.
Your laugh is contagious. I could look in your eyes for ages. Clearly there’s no ending… all the joy that you bring.
Lucius comes on. The opening synths tease at my senses, and I squeal. This could be the best night of my life, surrounded by the friends and sounds that make me happiest. He’s just finished his cigarette, so I say, seizing his hand for the first time in my life – “come in and dance with me”. He’s taken aback but good-spirited. “Go on then.” We walk in and take up the floor, where we’ve both drunk enough to feel totally comfortable. A smile stretches across my face and I abandon inhibition. Friends follow us, make up their own moves, feel their way into the beat. The delicate, prickly guitars underpinning Lucius’ voice take us out of pop into indie, out of the bland and into the sublime.
There’s something about you I can’t describe. If only you could see yourself through my eyes.
I’m singing to him, I’m singing for him. It’s been a year, a lifetime, 364 forgotten yesterdays. Every second smile and frown have been for him, because of him. Now I have a song that says it for me.
There is nothing I won’t do to show you why. You cannot hide – you’re simply one of a kind.
We’re laughing again; we’re at total ease. Half the people in the room know (and even if they don’t, at some level they must). Maybe this is the moment, the moment the year’s been building up to. Maybe as the song hits its final chorus, our bodies slow, our limbs settle – maybe then my head could end up on his shoulder? Maybe then I could look up into his eyes and take him down into my soundscape with me?
Who wouldn’t want to love like this?
The storm clouds are parting. No more counting the tears.
The train arrives; the doors open; the song ends.