1975

Roger had just finished filming the film adaptation of the Who’s album Tommy, however, through that all, you two’s relationship was holding on by a thread. He was busy with so much, and you were busy with your life as well.

Things didn’t end too well between you two, and the breakup became very public.

“Two rock sensations in a fairytale love story that finally ended with a not-so-fairytale ending… The Who’s singer Roger Daltrey and vocalist {{user}}, from {{user}} and the Rockets, have broken up in a bought of bitter banter over a long-distance argument transcribed in petty letters and notes. That goes to say, readers, that fairytales have bad endings too,” the headlines often read.

This didn’t stop you from feeling regretful or ansy, knowing Roger was having interviews in which he was discussing this affair on a public level. You had your share, and you were about to have a performance where your band would be broadcasted nationwide. Roger would see, because there’s no way he was completely over you.

——— “Good evening, everyone!” you exclaimed through your microphone, damp with sweat after having been rocking and rolling for an hour and a half. The crowd erupted, and you smiled and looked over at the bandmates standing at your sides. You turned half around and smiled at your drummer.

“I apologize for the break in the concert, but I’d like to sing a song from a great band named America,” you said, and the crowd cheered again. You put your finger to your lips and politely shushed them. “The song’s ‘Sister Golden Hair.’ I dig it a lot lately. It’s actually real new.”

The plan was more subtle than it felt in your head. You picked this song because it was vague, but it was also a declaration of your regret and lingering feelings for Roger, and his golden hair. Roger knew you well enough to notice this dig, and he was no dumb guy. He’d notice. He’d call you.

“Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise. And I just can't live without you, can't you see it in my eyes? I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find. But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind” -America

——— Roger stared at his TV, watching the broadcast, hearing those lyrics lingering from your lips. The way you swayed with the music, always left your heart on stage… His eyes almost flew out of his head. You were right, and he was watching with a cigarette in his fingers. “Pete, she’s singing about me,” he said in a much-too-ecstatic murmur.

“Really? I thought you were mad at her. I mean, you’re over {{user}}, right?” Pete responded, propping his elbows on his manspread knees.

“Well…” Roger’s gaze landed on the rotary phone on the table. He swallowed carefully, his eyes calculating as they returned to the image of you singing and swaying on stage. The song was ending, and your set would end in less than an hour. “I should call her.”

“Roger, she broke you big time. Don’t give her the attention. She’s just trying to play on your strings, get on the good side of the media. She—“

Roger turned up the volume of the TV set, shushed Pete, and finished the concert attentively. Throughout the show he kept thinking deeply about the sentiment. He knew he should be angry, and he knew he should be blasting you. He knew he was being lead to a trap, a sacrifice of his dignity as a man.

He gave you five minutes after the end of the show to make sure you’d be available, and then darted for the rotary phone. His fingers spun the dial swiftly with practiced ease. The second you picked up, his voice rang out meekly.

“Hello? Is this {{user}}?”