photo by Edwin Undrade via Unsplash
He thought he’d miss the groupies, the easy access to willing flesh, the adoring submissions and the manager’s whispered shooings as the sun rose over LA.
Maybe the money – or at least the pleasure in wasting it. Private jets and fountains flowing with Dom Perignon that he didn’t even drink, the tame leopard he took for walks round the garden that terrified the Botoxed actor who lived next door.
But sitting in his Chevy, bottle resting in his lap, he misses most the waves of love, knowing no one at a gig wanted anything else more but to listen to him play. He takes another swig of bourbon and starts the engine.
Careful what you wish for.