These seats blow.
I’m sitting on a fucking wall, slanting down at like a 80 degree angle, suspended fifty feet above the arena floor.
Fuck this. If I stay, my anxiety won’t let me enjoy anything.
I’m already two drinks in, rum and Coke. I bail, taking a place in the short line outside the box office downstairs.
I see her come down the escalator. She’s in a low-cut cocktail dress, siren red. Olive skin. Evil eyes. Fuck, she’s hot. She looks like an assassin sent to seduce and kill James Bond halfway through the movie.
She’s talking to me. We’re in line together. She’s there with her mom. She hates their seats, which are also in the upper levels. It’s her mom’s birthday. She’s Turkish. She owns a catering company. She’s probably like 28 but gets pissed when I ask her age. She pours some of her Cognac in my empty rum and Coke cup.
“Who are you here with?” she asks in her sultry accent.
“No one,” I admit.
“Oh, you are that kind of man.”
I still haven’t learned her name.
Celine takes the stage, her distinctive voice reverberating through the arena walls.
We finally get pulled into another room with another box office. Both of us swap our shit tickets out for floor seats. They’re right next to each other, the last three available. Score.
We go get her mom. I meet her mom. It’s not a memorable moment. I shake her mom’s hand. Her mom doesn’t seem to think much of me one way or another.
We head to the floor, me trying to lead the way as best I can like a proper human male. I struggle to find the right entrance at first.
Our seats are right in front of the sound guy. Celine is maybe a hundred feet away. She’s well into the setlist now, singing Beauty and the Beast with a dreadlocked backup singer.
She teaches us some French. “Mai oui,” she keeps saying, all sultry-like. I never catch what it means in English.
She sings The Prayer, Boticelli’s parts included.
The audience is probably 80 percent women — all ages, all made up in their finest. A few…