Me at 50's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Before the airport goodbye, before the two suitcases, there was a Tuesday night in October 2018 when I still believed Calgary could be good. The Foo Fighters announced a show at the Saddledome and I bought two tickets the morning they went on sale. They were my favourite band in the universe. I was not going to miss it, no matter what shape I was in. My legs were bad that week. The chorea made walking a negotiation. I took the stairs one at a time and held the rail like it owed me money. He watched me from the couch and asked if I was sure. I told him I was sure. I put on my boots and my jean jacket and I drove us to the arena myself. The curved white roof rose over the parking lot like a giant saddle. Inside, the concourse was packed. The smell of pot hung in the air thick enough to chew. I did not care. I bought a bottle of water and we found our seats. He sat down and stayed down. Arms folded. Jacket zipped. I understood in the first song that I had brought the wrong person. The stage was low and the crowd in front of us stood the whole night. If I wanted to see the band, I had to stand too. So I stood. My knees shook and my hip burned and I stood anyway. I sang every word. I danced the small careful dance my body could still do. I held the seat back in front of me and I moved. The drums hit my chest. The lights washed over the seats in white and red. Halfway through, he leaned close to my ear. He asked if I wanted to leave. I looked at him. I looked at the stage. They had not played Everlong yet. "Not on your life," I said. I turned back to the band. I did not check on him again. Somewhere in me the loud woman I used to be sat up and paid attention. She had been quiet for a long time. She liked this. She liked me standing when it hurt. She liked me refusing. They played Everlong near the end. The whole floor sang it back at the stage. I cried a little and did not wipe my face. My legs were done. My throat was raw. I stayed until the house lights came up. We walked out through the concrete tunnels in silence. He was angry. I was not. I drove us home with the radio on and my hands steady on the wheel. That night I lay in bed and understood something plain. I could have a good time without him. I already had. The proof was in my sore legs and my ringing ears. I did not know yet that I would leave him. But I knew now that I could go places alone.