Greener Grass

The afternoon breeze blows Kurt's considerably long golden hair; strands fly frontward across his bearded cheeks and angular shoulders. Mirrored sunglasses lift appreciatively to the cheering crowd as he begins another song.

A black boot taps in time to the guitar's gorgeously lush chords which are played effortlessly by my lover. I do not choose to sit in the front rows. I place myself in the middle of the swaying bodies of listeners who appear hypnotized by the music and the singer's rough, but sincere voice. When Kurt plays his musical poetry of the southland he transports his listeners with him.

I fight against the Georgian lullaby quality to the music. I wish to look upon the one I love when he is completely unaware of my presence. I do not know where he goes once the music commences. I have not asked him. I suspect that Kurt would be unable to articulate the realm he occupies seemingly sitting on a stage. We may see him among us, but he is out among the waves of wind which dance through his hair. It is a state I cannot access.

When the trance is broken Kurt gets to his feet, guitar in hand he waves, offering a sincere thank you into the microphone. The audience explodes into whistles, clapping and shouting. With a final, definitive wave, Kurt slips back stage.

The full weight of the hundreds of people gathered at this outdoor venue press together. They are a blind, rooting, throbbing union using their bodies to advance. I maintain my sense of direction. I must go forward and then back through the makeshift camps of roadies. They will deliver me safely to Kurt's traveling van.

But a hand latches onto my shoulder. The pressure and insistence unsettles me. I am hot, thirsty and eager to see Kurt. At his insistence, I have traveled with him across America for his Summer Fling tour. I do not regret one minute. But, I had to insist to stay behind on the last portion; the shows moving from the Carolinas back to our home in New York.

I had my own mission. Father Lucian asked for my help in setting up his newly revamped youth center. It was an honor to be requested and dubbed 'right hand man' by Lucian. Kurt and I had a bit of a row, but in the end, he understood I could not settle to be merely his devotee. Neither of us relished the time away from one another. My extreme excitement came as not a complete surprise. I am more myself when I am with Kurt. I do not know how to express this without sounding dependent. What we share is more symbiotic than dependence.

I regarded the presence that was keeping me from my reunion.

"Do you need help, miss?"


Her light face flushes. I am not sure if the cause is anger or embarrassment.

This girl with chestnut hair and grey eyes is dressed much like the rest of the concert attendees. Her blue jeans are tight and a ruffled blouse consists of just enough material to cover what should be concealed in public. This does not equate with the boy beside her. The child lowers his blonde head while she grips his hand tightly.

A small hand flutters upward to her shoulder length hair.

"You wouldn't know me, of course. You see, I know you…I mean, I've seen you at the concerts. You're very-"

My utterly confused expression stops her assessment. Taking a deep breath she speaks in a more certain tone.

"You're very close to Kurt."

I swear I can hear an actual click go off inside my head. Bodies on the move push me and the girl closer together. I try to take a step backward.

"I understand."

"I'm certain you don't."

The grey eyes narrow. She has given up the pretense of innocence. I become concerned for the boy who had not moved or spoken. Clearly he must be distressed by the situation.

"You wish for me to introduce you to Kurt, but-"

"Not quite," She clutches my arm, several bracelets jangle. "I just wanted to meet you."


"You're the muse. You're the reason Kurt writes such beautiful songs." Her lips turned downward. "He has found his peace with you," she chuckles, "a man."

I must get away. Whoever this girl is, she has an overtly hostile demeanor.

"Excuse me; I need to be-"

"Don't," she inserts her fingers into the space between my trousers and skin. "I haven't said my peace yet."

Her hand is removed from my person with a quick flick of my wrist.

"I am not interested-"

"I'm Kurt's wife."

She does not raise her voice. Her eyes do not waver from mine.

"This is Kurt's son, Skyler."

I look down at the same moment the child raises his head. It is like staring upon the childhood version of Kurt-the boy I never got to know.

"I'm called, Sky, sir."

I respond by reflex.

"I am Julien."

From the patch of ground behind her the boy's mother produces a blue satchel.

"And these are Sky's things. You be sure to tell Kurt that I gave him what was necessary."

"I…I do not understand."

"You don't have to. Let Kurt do the explaining. He's a master with words."

She leans down to kiss the boy on the head.

"Remember what we talked about. You mind your father. He's all you have now."

The child's voice quivers as he tries valiantly not to cry.

"Yes, mama."

"You cannot abandon this boy!"

"Why not?" She smirks. "Kurt did eight years ago. Now, it's his turn to be the responsible one."

"This is madness!" I stomp my foot as if I am eight-years old. "Even if what you say is true, your child is not a pawn in your sick game."

She points behind me while uttering one word.


I swing on my heels in time to see Kurt emerging from a cluster of people, autograph seekers and the like. He is smiling. Sky's mother waits long enough to be sure Kurt has seen her before she trots away.

The faint touch of the boys hand as he slips it in mine brings angry tears to my eyes. Kurt has seen her. The crestfallen look replacing his warm grin verifies the vengeful young woman's story. The hand I hold is that of Kurt's son.