She plays piano; it's something she's been doing since age five. I watch her long fingers gently stroke the black and whites producing a melody that is comforting. She looks like she just might be at peace for a few moments. I can tell that she's lost somewhere inside of herself; she's thinking about something that is driving the soulful chords of the song that she is playing. All I can do is watch her pour her soul out. She communicates so much more with music than she ever will with words.
She's upset. I know she gets this way when the evidence doesn't produce the black and white answer that will give people the resolution they need to leave the dead in the past. She's frustrated with herself; she always believes that there is something on each body that will give her the truth. Sometimes, there just isn't anything on the body. Sometimes, the bad guys are just as smart as the good guys. Sometimes, we don't win. She always wants to win; there is a small part of her, a ten year old child, that needs to win.
She goes to Max's to play the piano only in her darkest hours. She plays the piano when she can't verbalize the hurt and anger that she's feeling. I don't know how often she does this, but she will occasionally let me watch. She's beautiful when she's lost in a song; she's beautiful when she parts her lips and begins to sing softly to the tune that she has conjured. I love to watch her. She plays with a grace that she sometimes lacks in life.
She's sad. I can tell from the melody this evening; it's melancholy. She's had so many things to be sad about . . . James . . . Max . . . Devan. She still blames herself for Devan's death; she told me that once late in the night when we drank to oblivion. She thinks she should have asked Devan why she needed to cover her shift; she thinks she should have told Devan to catch the next flight and not rush. That's what a good friend would have done. We never drank alone; we had so many reasons to drink. I worried about us; I worried about our maladaptive coping patterns. Neither of us was really good at putting the past behind us; I just hid my anger better . . . well, I masked it with antidepressants.
I walked into her office one night when she was playing her guitar. I hadn't realized that she taught herself; she wrote songs for her mother and father. From the words, her intentions weren't obvious. It was the way her eyes got lost in the past that gave her away. I asked her to write me a song; she fired off a crude limerick that made me laugh. Two days later, she played a lullaby that I had never heard before. When I asked about it, she said that it was a new song. I'd like to think that she wrote the song to an attempt to ease all the pain that I was feeling. Her song would occasionally play in my head as I would drift off to sleep.
She asked if I loved Devan. I didn't know; I still don't know. She was just a sweet woman that gave me a little look at the lighter side of life. Devan was so different from her; I cared about them differently. It was easy to care about both of them.
I shut her out. I shut her out while I started to forge a relationship with Devan. It wasn't something that intended to do. We just grew away from each other; she grew up and I regressed. I missed them both. I was glad that we started to grow back together; she gave me something that no one else could . . . she gave me the drive to constantly do better and work harder. She drove me to limits that I never imagined. She made me a lot of who I am right now.
I shake my head to bring myself out of my thought induced trance. She's playing my lullaby. We'll probably stay here tonight; it's late and we are both too tired to drive. She'll let me run my fingers through her hair; I'll tell her that I loved her playing. She'll become self-conscious and blush. There is so much more that I want to say to her, but I refrain. Right now, I'm too fragile to be shot down again. Right now, I am too fragile to survive her pushing me away when I try to kiss her. Right now, all I can think about is how good she would feel in my arms. I've always wondered what it might be like to hold her late into the evening and late into the morning; I just might never let go.
The song is over. She says it's too late for us to venture into the cold, darkness of Boston. She asks me to turn up the heat a little bit; she's freezing. She gathers blankets from all around the house as I begin to build a fire in the fireplace. I know this dance; we've done it several times in the last few weeks.
She puts blankets on both the couches. I loosen my tie enough to slip it over my head. I unbutton my shirt half way; she pulls off her shirt to reveal a camisole that doesn't leave much to the imagination. She asks me to move the coffee table; she wants to make an impromptu bed on the floor in front of the fireplace. I move the coffee table. She arranges the blankets on the floor. When she's done, she asks me to join her. She says that she doesn't want to feel alone tonight. Most nights, I go to bed with that same thought.
I hold her in my arms. She begins to cry. She lets me stroke her long, chestnut hair as we both begin to fall asleep. I hum the melody of the lullaby Jordan wrote. Tomorrow, I will wake up with her in my arms.