Fuck, it was cold.
I wasn’t familiar with this semi-industrial area of Brooklyn, and at ten at night, a time I’d usually be home and watching Netflix with the hubby, I felt nervous alone on the nearly empty street.
I wished I’d made Jenny meet me at the station. Instead, I walked those several blocks quickly, toward the music that grew louder as I approached.
When I arrived at the venue, Jenny was there and waving me over, and even in a winter coat, her killer smile made her stand out among the black-clothed smokers huddling outside.
Jenny was tall as it was but looked practically Amazonian with the added height of her chunky black boots. I looked down at my own almost matching ones and figured she wouldn’t dwarf me by *that* much.
It was emo night at the *Public House*, and at Jenny’s insistence, she and I were there to take in all the now-embarrassing alternative emo pop-punk songs of our teen years.
Not that I didn’t want to go! I did. But I’m a homebody, and I felt the slightest bit guilty at leaving my husband home alone. Jenny had told me I could stay at her apartment that night since it was closer, but I’d yet to make a decision.