Sam is late home from work, and I’m pissed off because we have tickets for The Stragglers tonight at the Haffstand Dome and we need to get there for six. I try calling him, but after four slow rings, a double beep disconnects me. I pace the living room like an annoyed cat, ready in my dress, heels, and coat, glancing at the street. Every set of headlights that passes by fills up the room and leaves bright orange streaks on the wall. 

Sam is never late. He even brags about it. As I pace, a series of possibilities rush through my head; a meeting that overran, a new flirty receptionist, a flat tyre, a car crash, sinkhole in the road, a multi-car pile-up, a fatal injury—those happen. I covered an accident last month, standing on a bridge that blanketed the cars below like a forensic tent, repeating we are awaiting confirmation into a microphone flatly as the new camera guy Joe shook like a leaf on his first day. 

I sigh and slump on the sofa, peeling my right shoe off and massaging a blister already forming there. A paramedic would have called me by now, I reason with myself. I am saved as his ICE number after all. 

The sound of keys in the door makes me jump and I stand, ramming my foot back into the shoe. I check the time on my watch—five to six— if we avoid the speed cameras on Linden Road, we might be able to get there in time. He walks into the living room, hands raised apologetically, and I shoo him up the stairs, clapping my hands as if scaring chickens. He gives me a small smile and waves me away as he changes in our bedroom. Within ten minutes we are in the car cruising down the road. 

We make it to Haffstand Way and already the street is lined with cars, bumper to bumper. We crane our necks, looking for a gap. In the end, we park down a close, nestled at the end of the street, right behind a pale green camper van. 

We walk slowly back up the road hand in hand, then join the back of the queue wrapped neatly around the curved edge of the Haffstand and settle into each other. Sam wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean into his body. 

I love the Haffstand; a huge dome styled to mimic the Royal Albert Hall in London but only a fraction of the size. It is the single source of culture in the town, stood between a few residential streets and tree-lined park. The air is cold, there is a breeze playing with my hair, and tickling my face. I put my frozen fingertips up Sam’s jumper, stealing his heat, and earn myself a gasp as he tries to wriggle away from me. 

“So, why were you so late tonight? I thought you were trying to sneak away early,” I finally think to ask as we step forward one place in the line. 

Sam is an intern for an advertising agency. After years of trying to get into the writers’ scene, he finally changed lanes and began the internship. Unpaid, of course. It has taken over both of our lives, but he loves it. 

“I had to take a work call; I wasn’t expecting it. Sorry I was late.” After a moment, he kisses the top of my head. 

“From who?” 

 I’m rummaging through my bag for the tickets, pulling them out and popping them in my pocket ready to show them at the door. I wonder how much we’ll get charged for some wine inside. 

God, this queue reeks of piss. 

“Nobody. Just someone in the company. We’ll see what happens,” He sniffs. 

I twist my head back from his chest to look at him, raising an eyebrow. It's dark already – November – but we are standing underneath a streetlamp. In the artificial light he looks gorgeous, the orange glow makes his dark skin golden, and shadows frame his dark eyes from the length of his lashes. Tonight, he is wearing a pale grey shirt, black jeans, black boots, and his padded black jacket that I adore. He looks like a movie star. A blonde girl in a large group in front of us keeps glancing at him over her shoulder. I scowl. He looks back at me and smiles again, kissing me on the lips this time. 

“Sorry I was late,” he says again. 

Slowly, we trickle with a hundred others into the building and are met with a wave of bodies marching towards the auditorium. We swerve left, avoiding most of the crowd and as we climb burgundy carpeted stairs, I think of salmon struggling against the current; the amount of people is overwhelming. Sam grips my hand, and we step out a set of double doors onto a balcony, music bursts around our ears. It feels like coming up for air. 

A bored looking host points lazily towards our seats to the left of the stage, and then double checks me when he eventually lifts his eyes off the tickets we’ve handed him. 

“You’re that reporter,” he says loudly. 

I smile at him politely, nodding at his recognition, and we quickly zigzag together through small clusters of tables and chairs. We sit at a raised rectangular table and shed our coats. Sam nods at a young waiter in a skinny tie a few tables over and he appears at our elbows. 

“White wine?” Sam asks. The waiter nods. Sam holds up two fingers, “Two please.” 

The waiter disappears. Up here on the balcony the tables are spaced out a little - there is air. Below, I can’t see the floor of bodies. When strobe lights flash across the crowd, it’s like the surface of an inky black lake. Our drinks appear and Sam raises his glass at me in a toast, I clink his glass with mine. He pauses, eyebrows raised. 

“You look great!” he shouts over the music. 

“Thanks!” 

 I’m in a tiny little dress that my friend Rachel leant me for the night. It’s deep purple silk and stretches like a second skin over my body with thread-thin straps crisscrossing across my chest. I can barely move in it, but it makes a change from the shirt/skirt combination I tend to don on the news. I feel like I’m in disguise, and I like it. 

The music rises to a crescendo then suddenly halts, I watch, already cringing as Sam, over-compensating for the noise in the room, yells “you look so sexy!” into comparative, unforgiving silence. A group of guys at the table next to us smirk and cheer at him, one with glasses raises his pint glass at us and nods at me. We both laugh, and, embarrassed, gulp deeply from our glasses. The music increases to an incredible volume again. 

“You do, though,” Sam says again, leaning forward so I can hear him, eyes back on my dress. I grin at him and remind myself to thank Rach for her taste in clothes later. 

“Thank you.” 

The auditorium quietens and a buzz of excitement sweeps around the crowd. Sam squeezes my knee in the dark. 

The Stragglers appear on stage, guitars strapped over their shoulders, arms raised in a salute, strobe lights flashing, and the crowd erupts in screams of delight. They wave lazily, true musicians, one sips some water, and then swings his guitar across his body. In seconds, he starts – singing ‘All You Are’ into a standing microphone in front of him and stomping his feet, the crowd reacts and begins to jump in the air with arms aloft. The music transforms from being just a sound and into a vibration in the air. It feels electric. I gingerly touch Sam’s arm, but surprisingly there is no static shock. He scoots his chair closer to mine so that our legs are touching from our hips to our knees, and we raise our arms to the dome of the Haffstand, copying the crowd below. 

(…I know I said I would never try…) 

I feel Sam’s leg begin to vibrate against mine. I think he’s just shaking it when he pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket, swipes on the caller, and puts it back. He shrugs at me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. 

(… baby for you, you know I’d do anything…) 

The buzzing begins again. I stare at him as he pulls it out, swipes, and replaces it again. He catches my eye. “Don’t worry about it,” I take another sip of the wine, and sway along to the music. 

(… I know I said what I said, but baby, forget all that…) 

I feel the next vibration before he does. I reach into his pocket before him and push the phone into his hand. 

“It might be important! Just answer it,” I yell into his ear. 

He pauses, nods, and answers, standing and reaching for his coat. I watch him walking away towards the stairs, then look back at the stage. Maybe it was the same person who called him at work. I fret for a moment, then roll out my shoulders. 

(… Baby you can forget all that …) 

I lean forward in my chair, elbows on knees, and listen to the music. 

                                                                     ++ 

After a few more songs, Sam hasn’t returned. I stand and scan the room behind me but can’t see his face among the crowd, and strangers keep glancing at me with increasing interest as I continue my search. I’m starting to get annoyed, and stroppily sit back in the chair. As the band keeps singing, another song blending into another, I stand, collect my things, and head down the stairs to follow Sam. My head rings a little from the immense noise of the crowd. I feel like I’ve just stepped off a plane, ears popping. He isn’t on the stairs, nor the entrance hall. I shake my head a little, clearing it of residue music, and step outside. 

Icy air whips around my shoulders, and a cluster of men smoking near the exit look my way in surprise as I pull on my coat and scarf. I recognise some of them from the table next to ours. One hums the Southend News Network riff loudly, and they all laugh. I smile vaguely and then turn. Ignoring them, I walk down the street, searching for Sam. Looking left and right, it dawns on me that he could’ve walked the other way around the circular Haffstand, and I pause in the middle of the path, then turn back on myself. Realising I would have to pass the gaggle of men, I cross the road, hoping to pass them unnoticed, and walk quickly. A sharp sting on my heel slows me, makes me suck in air through my teeth. A blister has bubbled and popped. I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. I glance up the road as I march, and to my relief see Sam ahead, right opposite the exit. I must have walked right past him. He’s sat on a bench in shadow between two lampposts, just beyond the reach of the orange spheres. No wonder I didn’t see him before. I stomp up to him, prepared to shout. The tickets were ninety pounds each, the wine at least another ten. 

“You’ve spent a hundred pounds to take a phone call.” I snap but stop short. It’s not Sam. The man has Sam’s long hair, but blonde, not black. His skin pale like mine. He looks me up and down. 

“Oh, god, sorry. I thought you were someone else.” I mumble, face burning. I take a step back as he stands, frowning. 

“You’re the reporter,” he states. 

“Er, yes. I’m so sorry about that, I thought you were my husband. Have a good evening,” I call. I look over my shoulder and sure enough my outburst has caught the attention of the smokers. They’re all watching, their eyes abrasive. One drops his still glowing cigarette and scuffs it with his shoe. They slowly turn back into the building. I turn back to the stranger. “Sorry again,” I repeat. The man in front of me smiles. 

“I can be your husband if you want me to be,” he smirks. I wonder if I’ve heard him properly. My throat feels tight and itchy, my cheeks on fire. I blink at him, dumbfounded, and start walking again, slightly faster now. The blister grates on the back on my shoes, angry and sore, but I push through. 

Where the fuck is Sam? 

I’m looking around in quick, jerked movements. Rachel’s dress is starting to hike up my thighs, and I yank it down periodically, impatiently. I pause and reach for my phone in my bag and notice footsteps behind me. I look over my shoulder to see the man on the bench drifting up the street, tracing my steps. We are the only two on the street. I fumble for my phone but can’t find it. 

Snapping my bag shut again, I resume walking. 

He follows. 

I tuck my chin into my chest and grip my bag. 

The click of my heels ricochets off the wall next to me. The dress rides up again and again and I fucking hate it. I keep walking. I know there is another door back into the venue not too far ahead; there are four in total leading into the dome. A sudden noise behind me – a cough - sparks a streak of white heat that rises from my stomach, creeping up my neck. He’s close. It’s all I can do not to break into a run. Desperately, I yank on the dress again, and the hem rips. A hole appears on my upper thigh, through it my thong peeps through. 

I want to cry. Another cough. He’s right behind me. A flurry of images rush through my brain; a bar graph showing the percentage of attacks in the past year shown on TV, a diagram of an elbow and knee joint, a woman’s shoe discarded on the road. I imagine the new cameraman stood facing another reporter, a white sheet covering me, Rachel’s dress in an evidence bag. Only 7% percent of sexually motivated attacks occur where the victim and perpetrator are strangers. I would know; I reported it. 

A protruding exit sign looms ahead and I round the corner at a gallop and stop short. Thickset chains encircle a padlock hanging from the closed door. My vision tunnels and I spin on my heels and face out into the street. The man approaches, openly staring at me, through me, at my coat, the tiny dress half-hidden by it, my bare legs. My hands clench into fists.  

“Hello sexy,” he says in a low voice, taking the final few steps to close the gap between us. 

I lean back into the wall and my eyes dart over him. 6 foot. Blonde hair, shoulder length, straight. Pale skin. Narrow jaw. Small build. Where is sam where is sam where is sam where is sam – 

“Nice dress.” 

He takes another step, then another, and carries on. He walks straight past me. 

I stand, pinned to the wall by my own fear. I feel the heat leave my cheeks and drain to my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick. I run a shaking hand across my forehead and remove the sweat that has collected there, watching a droplet form and drop from my fingertips onto the pavement below. I clear my throat, releasing pressure that I had built for a scream, and watch as it rises as white steam in front of me. I stay there for a moment, breathing in and out, releasing dragon’s breath and playing with the shapes that curl in on themselves as they drift upwards until my heartrate settles back down. I calm myself. 

As I relax, I become aware of my bag pinned under my arm, how cold it is, how much my feet hurt. I try to lift one foot away out of the heel to inspect the blister there, but it is stuck to the lining of my shoe. I wince and lean back. I notice, for the first time, that leant against the wall like this I can feel the vibrations from the music inside. I step away from the dome and look back the way I came. I see Sam, recognise him immediately, emerging from the park a few metres down from the glowing entrance, a rectangle of light pressed against his ear. He notices me and waves with his whole arm. I can see the flash of his teeth from where he smiles, finishing off his phone call. I walk towards him slowly, feeling like my head is full of air and I’m balancing on thin stilts. I tread miniature steps. He hangs up the phone and seizes my arms with both hands. 

“I got it baby! I got the promotion!” he shakes me gently, jubilant. I search my brain for a grin, I manage a smile. I open my mouth to tell him what happened but can’t. He drops his hands to mine and pulls me towards the entrance. “Were you trying to find me? Sorry, I was too excited to stay still I kept walking. Hey, what happened to your dress?” 

I look down at the hole that has stretched upwards to reveal my hip. I think. Sam is giddy with excitement and keeps talking. 

“Come on, they have champagne behind the bar downstairs, I saw it earlier. Let’s celebrate, we’ll probably still catch the ending,” he leans in and kisses me square on the mouth, and pulling me behind him, walks us back into the warm light of the Haffstand. 

Hollie Sherwood-Martin is a writer and artist currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway, University of London. You can find her through linkedin or Instagram.