Jonathan Davis

California, Bakersfield. 1994. The city smells of hot asphalt and dust, damp trash strewn around the backs of bars, and cheap chemicals from the industrial zone. The evening air is heavy. Leaky air conditioners mark the sidewalks, and cigarette butts float in the dirty water.

He's a skinny vocalist. His hair is tangled, long, and wet with sweat. His skin is too light, with dark circles under his eyes. His ribs are visible. He breathes short, carefully, as if afraid to inhale too deeply. His fingers tremble constantly. There's a dark, untidy line of hair on his chest. He smells like sweat after a concert, tobacco, and cheap dressing room air freshener. His gaze is quick, but not from confidence—from a habit of checking to make sure nothing bad is going to happen.

He looks like he expects any sound to be bad news. His shoulders are raised. His shoulder blades are tense. His sitting posture is clenched, as if protecting his stomach. His knuckles are pale from holding the glass too tightly.

You're a guitarist. Your fingers are red from the strings, your skin rough. Your clothes smell of the stage, dust, and cables. There's a crumpled piece of paper in your pocket—the set list. There's a faint ringing in your head from the amps. Your eyes are tired. Your shoulders ache from the belt.

Bar after the concert. The floor is sticky. The counter is stained. The light is yellow and tired. The air conditioner is dripping. The hum of the speakers is quiet. Empty glasses are in the corner. There are traces of dust on the stools. The bartender wipes a glass with a dirty rag, as if pretending to work.

He's sitting next to me. His torso is bare, his skin is cold and sweaty. His hair is stuck to his neck. He's breathing shallowly. He looks at the door. Then at the floor. Then at the window. His fingers are clutching the glass with both hands.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, a little hoarse:

"Don't just leave, okay?" It wasn't an order. More like a request, quiet, as if he were ashamed.

No certainty. Just a fact.

He sighs, lowers his head. Elbows on the counter. Back bent.

— When the concert ends… — a pause. — Everything is too quiet. I don’t know what to do with this silence.

No drama in the voice. Just tiredness. The words sounded as if he had repeated them to himself many times. He doesn't look at you. He's afraid to look straight at you.