He felt her presence behind him and wished she’d go away.
She touched his elbow, gently, fingers outstretched like she thought about grabbing then thought better of it.
He turned at the touch. He would not tell her to go away, that would be rude.
“It was a beautiful song. You should stay til the end. I would be astonished–no, furious–if you didn’t win the audience choice award. It’s 50 bucks.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
His eyes were straight down, as though later he’d be quizzed on the cracks in the asphalt.
She said “Come back in the-”
“No,” he said with an edge that could have been a shove.
She stepped back.
He glanced up, his eyes back down, realizing she was the kind of person that probably didn’t get ignored, ever.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her, but eyes still facing the ground. “I just came to play the song and leave. I’m leaving.”
“Can I find the song on YouTube?”
He looked up.
“Yes. Yes you can. Though I should take it down. If you’re lucky, after the song is over–a song about a woman, a dead one, who didn’t have a single ounce of patience or respect for anything financial or material–you’ll see an ad for a goddamn day trader stock market platform.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “It’s your art. You should get to pick what ads-”
“I wouldn’t pick any ads,” he barked, and a hand grabbed him from inside. “I’m sorry. None of it is your fault. I just want to go home.”
He turned, and felt the ground tremble a bit.
Turning back, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m just not social…anymore. I…I’m just not a lot of things anymore.”
His eyes found the ground again.
“I didn’t catch the name of the song,” she said. “I’ll find it on YouTube and I promise I won’t pay attention to the ads, it was just beautiful and you sang it beautifully and I loved it.”
“No,” he said, anger rising in his voice again. “I’m taking it down. I’m not having it make money for people she couldn’t stand.”
She bit her lip. Even in the darkness, away from the streetlights, he could see the indents of a real bite, her skin going white where the blood flow had been pinched.
Her eyes were those of a puppy who had been left home alone too long.
“Would you play it for me again, right here?”
His tongue hit his palate to make the N sound in No.
But there was another presence, another voice that stopped him.
Without a word he clicked open the guitar case.
“Wow…” she said, almost inaudibly and took what she thought was a respectful step back.
The ground seemed to shift under her feet.
He strapped his harmonica over his neck, began to play, then strummed the guitar.
His eyes looked above her to a place she thought she’d never find.
The harmonica fell from his lips as he began to sing.
She put a hand to her mouth and her knees wobbled.
His eyes could have been the opals in a bracelet her grandma never let her touch.
Behind him there was a light she didn’t need or want, and some percussion that didn’t truly fit the song.
She locked into the musician, staring, singing, as the dirty heavy, pulsing hum drowned him out.
It was a train, on the tracks the bar was named for.
He didn’t flinch, he didn’t stop playing, she watched his throat tremble as he held notes that disappeared into the night sky.
As the train engine passed, she never hated a machine so much in her life.
She cropped her vision, so it was only the musician, the blur of the train cars just a sea of dark behind his opal eyes.
When her shoulder was grabbed she swung at it-reflex, then true, sickening annoyance and disappointment.
He played the song, drowned out. He had enough of it, the grief starting to cook inside him and the heat making it hard for him to breath, even in the cool night air.
He stared above the beautiful woman, equal parts angry and hopeful that she would enjoy the song he never wanted to write and shredded him to play.
He didn’t know there was another presence there until he felt her joy start to diminish.
He hadn’t known the joy was there, but he felt its absence as it left.
The new presence was a man, and he was angry.
The woman who requested the song flung her arm at the man like one would at a moth near a doorway.
The man relented and walked away.
The woman’s attention turned back to him and he felt her joy begin to flow.
As he repeated the chorus, he realized the song would end before the train passed, and she couldn’t possibly hear it.
It was a shame, because now he knew he’d never play the song again.
***
I hid the same song in here twice because I don’t want you to miss it. I heard it for the first time Sunday, live.
Music has so many powers and pleasures ❤️
Read it twice, closely, wondered if it would have same immediacy on reread - it did, maybe more. You can feel the particles in the night air and smell the machinery of the train like a dream you won’t understand once you wake up. Vivid characters existing but despite the song, not being allowed to connect.