He had sent her the ticket, not knowing if she was going to show up or not--a plane ticket and a note stating that a driver would pick her up at the airport in Sao Paulo in particular. It was grating, wasn't it? To have a beautiful bird kiss your cheek and then have to jet off the next day for a line of gigs in South America--he likes it, he does, but at this point, there's something mildly depressing about singing the same old songs with the same old moves and the same old drunk wearing on his nerves. It's strange.
He supposes he's tired of touring, grateful for the light at the end of the tunnel in a certain sense--the future of the band is tentative, not because the boys are tired of one another. They're simply tired. But he's waiting anxiously for Lana either way--her flight was due back an hour ago, and she should be due in front of the Renaissance Sao Paulo at any given moment. He pushes his hair back--muses it, and breathes in the humidity of the sticky South American air.
