Undeafened

The stage lights shine down, glistening against my guitar that's resting lightly on its stand. The pulse of the floor, surely matching the beat of the music, slows. House lights begin to dim, and I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and a young woman is staring at me expectantly. Are you ready to go on? She mouths, and I nod. She smiles, and gives what I can only assume is a forced thank you before turning around and asking my band-mates the same thing. Within moments, the lights onstage change, and that can mean only one thing—we're on. I let the lead and drummer go on first, and the sweat gleams off their foreheads. The crowd's getting to them, I'm sure. I follow, taking my position next to the far-back amp rack, as a bassist should. The crowd, barely visible, has their mouths agape and hands clasped. They must be cheering. I turn my attention to our drummer, as he begins to hit his drumsticks together harshly, giving me my beat. I strum, and for once, I can hear.

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