4,224 chairs were lined up against the slate wall. We circled them like dogs chasing their tails until, dead, the music stopped and we sat. Minus six, that includes the red head I catch you staring at in Geography. 12 hours later. Over 300 listens of “Tequila” endured. That song used to bring back memories of watching The Sandlot with my dad, subbing out dinner for stale ruffles and marveling at Wendy Peffercorn. My mind doesn’t drift anymore. My only focus is the chair. There’s one left, and part of me hopes you get to it first.