Anyway, here is the photo:
Here is my story:
Gillian didn’t want to go to the concert. She had a headache.
Brad snorted and said that was the same old excuse. So she sighed, picked up her purse and got
into the car with him.
After a silent drive, they got to the arena. The parking lot
was full. “Of course,” thought Gillian. They found a spot three blocks away and
walked back. It was raining. This didn’t improve Gillian’s headache.
They joined the line for the door, endured the search for
contraband, and made it to their seats. The prelim band hadn’t started, and the
crowd was restless. There were a few shouts, and some jostling, but the vibe
was cool. People who liked this band were known for being laid back, and the
smell of pot proved it.
Brad kept talking to her, and she kept nodding her head.
Talking made her head hurt. She dreaded the start of the music. Why did she let
Brad talk her into these things?
Brad took a hit from a joint offered to him, and then passed
it on to her. She was afraid to refuse it, so she took a deep breath, held it,
and exhaled.
“See, Babe? Isn’t this fun?” Brad grinned. She nodded.
“Fun,” she said, but thought, “NOT!”
She took another deep hit, feeling just the teensiest bit of
tension leave her forehead. Maybe if she got stoned she wouldn’t care how she
felt. And it struck her: this is the story of her life with Brad. He talked her
into doing things she didn’t want to do. She zoned out on booze or dope to make
it livable. What kind of relationship was that? She knew what she had to do,
but it could wait. She wanted to enjoy the concert.
The house lights went out. The crowd stood and yelled. Blue
lights from the stage came on, and they illuminated the haze of pot smoke hanging over the crowd.
“How’s your headache?” Brad yelled.
“All better!” she replied.
“I knew you’d be glad you came!”
“You have no idea.”
