I met the girl who later would become my wife at a rock concert when we were both nineteen.
I remember that she looked totally amazing in her Dr. Martens and short leather skirt. She was taller than most other girls, and she stood out from the concert crowd with a magnetism I couldn't resist.
Luckily, I picked up my courage and talked to her. Her name was Tanya. A year later we were married.
The first couple of years we had tons of fun together. We were both into rock music of all flavors, and we went to all the gigs in our area. I absolutely loved the way she dressed back then. Her style was sexy rock chick, and she could turn me on with just a glance from those dark eyes.
But after the first magical years our lives changed slowly, almost imperceptibly. She got an office job at an insurance firm, and had to dress more formal. Her rock chick outfits were moved to the back of the closet, then later to the attic. When we moved to a new house, she gave her old style to charity.
All of a sudden we were grownups, married for almost seven years. We had all we needed materially. Two cars, a house with a garden, an espresso machine and two sixty inch TV-sets. But the fun was gone. We had lost that tingling sense of excitement from the early days. We never listened to loud rock anymore, just news reports and late night talk shows on TV.
We had decided to wait and focus on our careers before we had any kids. So our house became a kind of quiet and spotless home from some interior design magazine.
Our sexlife had withered as well. Back when we had no money and lived in a crappy apartment we couldn't keep our paws off of each other. Now we were safe and clean in our upper middle class home, and nothing seemed to spark our old lust.
We were only 26 years old, but already behaved like we were middle aged.
"Honey?" I say to her, sitting by the computer one evening. "Remember what we did on your twentieth birthday?"
She doesn't even look up from her iPad, just shakes her head.
I put on a song on the stereo, and crank up the volume. She sighs and finally looks at me.
"The Papal Rape gig, right? Their farewell tour?" I've put on one of the punk rockers' biggest hits, and get up from my chair. Trying a little air guitar, but feeling awkward.
"Yeah," she says, absently. "I remember."
"Well, they're doing a comeback!" I tell her. "And I've bought us tickets!"
"Oh, you have?" She doesn't seem too pleased. When is it?"
"Next Saturday."
"I'll have to check my calendar, sweetie," she says, returning to her iPad.
I feel a little deflated - guess I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm. The rest of the evening goes by without a word between us.
The next day at work I do a lot of thinking. Is this what our life and marriage is going to be until we grow old? All work and facade, but no passion or fun? Our rock 'n' roll days seem to be over, so can I live with that?
I work overtime, not all to excited about going home. On the drive home I call my buddy Fred to check if he wants the spare ticket and go with me to the Papal Rape reunion concert. I feel pretty sure that Tanya won't go.
I park the car in the garage and go inside. From the entrance I hear noise coming from the TV-room downstairs. Music. Not something you hear often at our house. I listen and try to hear what's playing. Can it be?
Yes. It's definitely Papal Rape. Sounds like a live recording. I stalk downstairs to see what's going on.
Downstairs I see my wife sitting on the floor in front of the stereo. There's old concert footage from a VHS tape flickering on the large screen, and the speakers are thumping an almost forgotten Papal Rape tune. She's completely lost in the music, and doesn't notice that I've come home. I stand by the stairs, watching her.
There's a cardboard box by her feet, and she's rummaging through it, finding old CD's and tapes I thought we gave to charity a long time ago. She must have kept them in the attic.
I smile to myself, happy that my concert tickets seem to have revived some of that old spark in her. I leave her to her little listening trance, and stalk back upstairs.
I cook a quick dinner, and all the time I can hear the music from downstairs. I set the table for two, but decide not to interrupt my wife's private listening party. So I eat alone.
I've finished dinner and cleared my dishes, when Tanya finally turns off the music and emerges from the basement.
"Hi, honey! There's pasta, if you want," I say and pull up a chair for her at the dining table.
"Oh, great, I'm starving," she says. "I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"Really? What kept you so busy?"
"Well," she begins, and sits down, grabbing her fork. "You know I was supposed to work from home today, to get some paperwork out of the way."
I serve her a steaming plate of pasta and pour her a glass of red wine.
"But last night I had a dream. We went to a Papal Rape concert. And when I got up I couldn't get the dream out of my head. So I dug up some old records. Thought I'd just put on some background music and get to work. But I kind of got lost in all the old, cool music. Before I knew it the whole day had gone by."
She digs into her food while talking. I haven't seen her this eager for a really long time. She looks passionate, like the old Tanya so often was.
"Yeah. So you've thought about the concert tickets?" I ask.
She empties her wine glass in one thirsty sip and looks at me.
"Yeah. Let's go see Papal Rape!"
The week before the concert goes by quickly. My wife keeps listening to the old Papal Rape records, and blasts all the live videos she can find.
I had forgotten how much she was into Papal Rape's singer and front man Randi Roxster. He was the archetypical hard rock star back then, long hair barely tamed by a bandana, tight leather pants and small denim vests barely covering his tan and muscular chest.
I feel a slight sting of almost forgotten jealousy as my wife watches him strut about on the big screen. Wonder what he looks like now, many years later?
One afternoon I come home, just a few days before the concert, and my wife has found some of her old outfits.
"Wow, I thought you gave those to charity," I say, as I watch her laying out the clothes on our bedspread. Patterned pantyhoses, short denim shorts, black leather skirts, tight tank tops and other items of assorted rock chick attire.
"No, I couldn't bear to get rid of these," she answers. "So I hid them away in the attic. I'm glad I did."
