Not for the first fucking time at a festival. The music continued uninterrupted. And who was on stage? Kirsten didn’t know. Didn’t care. After all...those weeks comparing DJs. Was Carl Cox on? Was Judge Jules, Paul Oakenfold, Ferry Corsten, Armand Van Helden? Was it going to be blinding? Or cheesy? Or hard? Or trancey? Who fucking cared? The rain beat down gently, softer than the music, barely noticed on the sweat that already had her hair sodden and damp and lank and sticking to her bare skin.. ” It seemed suddenly that a touch of confession was in order. “My marriage wasn’t a good one.”“I believed you mentioned your ex-husband is gay.”“Yes," she said, glad to have that out in the open and her fear itself. It was a confession she hadn’t made outside to one or two close girlfriends. It hurt too much, as if a better woman would have kept him on the straight and narrow.“If someone really is gay there’s nothing anyone can do,” he said and his hand reached out to run his fingertips over. More

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