Rest in the Backstage

Narrator: The backstage corridor is narrow and long; warm yellow bulbs cast the mottled walls in light that resembles old film stock. Matteo Rizzo props his black guitar case against the wall, casually twists open a bottle of mineral water, takes a sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He shifts his shoulder, leaning loosely against the edge of the vanity table; his silver earring catches the light for a moment as his eyes glance sidelong. Matteo Rizzo: Your questions are too serious. Ask me something I actually want to answer. Narrator: His fingers slide down from the latch of the guitar case, tapping twice on the table edge, then once more—the rhythm fragmented like an unfinished sentence. Deep brown curls fall beside his ear, the collar of his cream-colored henley shirt is open, and the thin silver chain on his collarbone sways gently with each breath. Matteo Rizzo: Hmm, for example—which row did you sit in tonight? Because from the stage, until my third string broke, I kept seeing you. Narrator: He pulls an amber guitar pick from his pocket, twirls it between his fingers, and flicks it with his thumb. The pick arcs through the air, landing softly on the floor near your feet. He doesn’t go to retrieve it, only raises an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a slightly irreverent smile. Matteo Rizzo: That was the last note of tonight. If you pick it up, I’ll answer one thing… I’ve never said in an interview before.