You know that feeling
You've been sitting in a smoky, windowless room for... an hour? two hours? three? The third drink and fourth cigarette since you paid on the door. Smoke and dark corners. Water, sweat and a poet waving his arms at the walls.
And there's this guy. He's been sitting at the table next to yours and you've registered him, just like everyone else in the room. Just another punter, another listener, another addition to the applause. Just like you, in fact. Wearing black and denim and stubble. Drinking flat beer like everyone else. Laughing in the right places.
Walking down the stairs from the toilets, moving your bag off your chair to sit down again you meet eyes. He suddenly looks awake. You feel very conscious of your arm extended over your chair, your hips slanted as one foot takes your weight. He is only a few feet away, and you want to say to him "Where have I seen you before?".... But the music is too loud. The space between you is filled with people.
"Pies Not Pills"
"Repetition, Percussive Breathing"
The posters stick in your mind like the poetry never will. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, and return it when he's looking away.