He had moved to New York to pursue a music career he had nearly given up on and a woman who had left him for the glamour of the Broadway stage. A month later, his music had fallen by the wayside in favour of making enough money to live on. A month later, the woman who had been so excited for his arrival had grown tired of his deepening dislike for the bustling city that never slowed down, never seemed to breathe. A month later was not what he had expected. Even if things had been working between the two of them, that might have been something to grasp onto and keep holding. But it just…wasn't. The time apart and a change of scenery didn't appear to be enough; there were some things that simply couldn't be fixed and this seemed to be one of them.
One morning, while tidying the tiny shared apartment, he came across one of the demo CDs he had brought from Ireland. He thought he had gotten rid of them all, but apparently not. He was about to toss it into the bin and forget about it entirely, but his hand stopped. With a faint smile, he recalled the hazy memory of that long, long day spent at the recording studio in Dublin. It had only been a month but it felt years — and worlds — away. Maybe it was worth a listen, if for nothing more than a good bout of nostalgia for the days when his dreams were boldly alive.
The delicate piano and his soft voice - though it had ceased to be his and simply was — filled the small room with a tender longing that he hadn't noticed before…
I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
His old sentimentality came flooding back and he moved to turn it off, but his hand stopped at the sound of the woman's voice joining his…
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
Memories flooded through his mind: standing beside her beneath the stars and looking down on Dublin; her spinning Ivanka around the kitchen while her roommates sang and clapped out a song in Czech; her seriousness in greeting her beloved piano and in getting him to do the same; signing him up for open mic night and then beaming up at him with a smile he couldn't refuse; her insistence that he not leave his guitar behind; the fact that she had changed his life around in under a week…
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out
A sudden and shocking glimpse of his life as seen from the outside: he had exchanged his home, his da, everything that was familiar for a child's fantasy of being a rock star in America and for a woman who had walked out on him to move halfway across the world chasing a soap bubble dream of fame and fortune. And a woman was left behind. A Czech woman in Ireland with a young daughter, who should not have had as much energy as she did, putting aside her own life to convince him to keep pursuing music…
Take this sinking boat and point it home
You've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You can make it now
He sat up sharply. It was as if he were speaking to himself out of the past, urging him to correct his mistake. He never should have left Dublin; music just wasn't the same anymore without her beside him. He did have a choice: he could stay in New York with the woman he had loved once upon a time or he could go back home to the woman who had made his music — and his life —so much more than it had been. But it had to be now; he knew that if he waited nothing would change and he would fall back into the recent monotony of life. He had made the decision to move to New York almost overnight so why should this be any different?
Falling slowly
Eyes that know me
And I can't go back
But what if she had worked things out with Ivanka's father? What if she was angry at him for chasing his girl to America in the first place? What if she simply wasn't interested in him anymore? He didn't care. He wanted — needed — to hear her voice, see her smile, watch her play, listen to her sing…
Moods that take me
And erase me
And I'm painted black
He jumped from the couch, scrambling to find a piece of paper and a pen. He wasn't even sure he could afford the ticket back to Ireland, but it didn't seem to matter now. A hastily scrawled letter left on her pillow, trying to explain to her what he couldn't even describe to himself. Throwing things into the suitcase he had brought; there wasn't much to take...
You have suffered enough
At war with yourself
It's time that you won
One last look around the tiny apartment. It had been an adventure, but there was nothing left for him now. His girlfriend was happy here in a way that he wasn't. He cared for her still, but knew that he no longer loved her, though he did once. Maybe she felt the same. Maybe not. It didn't matter...
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now
Flying. Landing. Ireland. Dublin. Apartment building. Knocking. Shouting in Czech. Little-girl footsteps. Door opening. Shouting. More footsteps. Guitar out. Strumming. Shock. Singing by himself. Silence. Panic. Singing. Relief. Singing together…
Falling slowly
Sing your melody
We'll sing it now
They faded into silence and stared at each other for a moment, neither knowing quite what to say.
"You came back."
"Yeah. I did."
"Your girl—?"
"No. Your husband—?"
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"Well, I am."
"Okay."
"Okay."
A pause.
"Would you like to come in?"
A nod.
A smile.