He didn’t remember when it started. He always had a guitar in the corner of his bedroom, next to his high school yearbooks and his dresser, but he never played. It wasn’t until May, until after the transfer, that he brushed off the dust and began to play. The metallic strings were rusted and out of tune and the wood had faded from the sunlight. After a few months, he even played in local coffee shops, dressed in his lucky sweater, to play to an audience of two or ten. He would always sing to the door, just waiting. Between sips of black coffee, he would whisper songs into the dim light, waiting.
His set had just begun. He put the microphone close to his mouth, a black wire kiss connected to the small amplifiers beside the stage. He rested his guitar on his knee.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Jim. And this goes out to the one I love.” He gave a heartbreaking smirk and looked down to the ground.
She sat there in the front row, the new one. She liked to think he was singing to her, but he wasn’t.
The strings began to vibrate, softly humming.
“I'm under attack again, my dear.
I'm in the way.
Got no resolutions, no clever anecdotes to say.
And still, if I yell at the top of my lungs, will it be the same?...”
He sang about the past, his eyes closed, remembering that one night, the night when everything was wonderful and everything was new and everything was lost. The bell to the front door rang loudly.
She had left. Probably left her purse in the car again and wanted a coffee.
“…The telephone number I got from you says nobody's home.
The best thing I can think to do right now is leave it alone.
And you had an apology in your mailbox since last July.
It's funny when you find the words to say you find no reply…”
The days after were awkward and silent. He would try to re-introduce himself, but only to be introduced to stale air and a gaze to her feet. The transfer was worse. He pretended the new girl was the old, did the things he had always wanted to with the girl he never really loved. He filled out expense reports and fixed the copier and sold the same products with the same tired techniques.
He tried to talk to her, he tried to call her, but there was no hope anymore. He had no future. He had everything he always wanted, except her. But he wouldn’t make her leave her life for him. He wouldn’t. The night where they finally collided was the night that they finally fell apart. And he wouldn’t take her life away from her.
“I want to feel through you tonight…
But I won't make you,
I won't make you
Scream my name just one more time…
But I won't make you,
I won't make you.”
That night, the night he never forgot, was the only thing he could remember now. After what happened, he sat in his car and didn’t move. He stayed there until morning. He had no plan. He had no future.
Yesterday, he had found the note he wrote to her for Christmas and left it on his table. His roommate carelessly put it in the mailbox and sent it.
Yesterday he had dreams.
The bell to the door of the coffee house rang again.
She sat down with her purse.
“…And it's been hours now; to be here like this
And just to lay you down
And just to taste your lips
And just to keep me up
God, I'm so tired of sleeping
And just to lay inside you
And just to know this feeling…”
He just wanted to run away.
“…I want to feel through you tonight…
But I won't make you,
I won't make you.
Scream my name just one more time…
But I won't make you,
I won't make you.”
The last chord struck as he reached for his coffee.
An almost inaudible clap resounded through the store. He looked up.
And there she was, with the letter in front of her, smiling.
And he left the stage to the one he loved, held her hand. The bell to the door played one last time, and their reflection in the glass was the last they ever saw of them.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
ourcarscollide is the author of 2 other stories.
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