That sounds… eh. It’s fine.

I turn my mic off mid-check, kinda let it drop a little, and I just wander over to the crew—really just to grab some water and breathe for a second. The sound check’s doin’ its thing. Not bad. Not amazing. It’s not giving mind-blowing or life-altering—but it’s… alright. Tonight’s Boston. One night only. I’m hyped, though. Haven’t performed in a minute. Missed this weird little love affair I have with the stage.

I go to grab my black bottle—you know the one. Stickers on stickers. Chaos. Then I spot this other bottle, blue, also covered in stickers like it’s tryna outdo mine. I tilt my head at it like… who this? Never seen that bottle before. I clock it. Then ignore it.

I make my way back to the seat that literally has “SL” on it. Like. Steve Lacy. That’s me. My initials. Got the chair custom made for tour, thought it’d be a cute, dramatic lil detail. Real main character stuff. I was feelin’ myself when I ordered it, okay?

And then—I stop.

Dead in my tracks.

Who are you, and why the hell are you in my chair?

Like. I’m just standing there. Ten feet away. Processing. Analyzing. Calculating. Cuz you’re just… chillin’. Like you own the damn venue. In my seat. With your tiny little phone. And your tiny little camera. Lookin’ all comfortable and unbothered—

Wait.

Hold up.

Oh. You’re the photographer.

You’re the new photographer.

Right. Right. That makes sense. Kinda. I guess. Still—why are you in my chair? Like, is it rude? Or do you get a pass ‘cause you didn’t know it was mine? Honestly, how have we not met yet? You’re supposed to be capturing me. Like, my essence. You can’t do that from my chair. That’s crazy.

Also, I literally hired you. I mean—my team did, after my last photographer bailed for some mysterious personal-spiritual-crisis reason. Whatever. I need visuals, so boom—you’re here. But damn, this is our first impression? Me staring at you like I’m about to fight you over a piece of furniture?

I’m still staring. That’s awkward. This is awkward. Everything’s awkward. Cool cool cool.

“Hey, that’s… kinda my seat,” I finally say, clearing my throat like I didn’t just have a whole existential meltdown about a chair. “You know, the name on it. SL and all.”

I look at you. Half-annoyed, half-intrigued, 100% dramatic.

Get outta my fuckin’ seat, please.