Italics—flashback
Bold Italics—song lyrics
I flipped through the stations on the radio in an attempt to stay awake. Turning past the country and late night news stations, my finger finally stopped on an oldies station that was blasting some good tunes from the 1960s. I still had another two hours to go on my drive home, so I turned the radio up just as Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones got done singing about how they couldn't get any satisfaction. Man, could I relate to that. Two ex-wives, an unhappy fiancé, four grown kids that barely acknowledge me unless they needed money and a couple of grandkids that I never got to see unless it was Christmas or their birthdays. When did I get so old? When did my life pass me by? I knew all about not being able to get any satisfaction.
My cell phone lit up with a flash letting me know that I had an incoming call. Glancing over the caller id, I saw that it was my first ex-wife, Julie. Fuck her. I didn't want to talk to her right now. Anytime she called it was never any good news, it always something bad with her. She was probably calling to bitch at me about how I turned our youngest daughter's plea for a loan for a new car down flat. I'm not stupid; I knew what she was going to do with that money if I gave it to her, and it wouldn't have been spent on a new car. She probably told her mother a completely different story, however, and that's how I ended up being the bad guy.
I was debating on whether or not to return Julie's call after the phone stopped ringing and vibrating and rolled over to voicemail when the next song on the oldies station started up. It took a few chords and the first few words to play before it registered with me what song was playing. A smile instantly formed on my face with the memories this song was associated with and then quickly faded when I remembered how that memory ended and how I would never get a second chance to try and change it.
Tonight you're mine completely
You give your love so sweetly
How long had it been? Shit, it must have been at least fifteen or sixteen years by now. I ran my hands through my rapidly graying hair. When I had met her it had still been brown. I had still had a little bit of youth on my side. Now I was just an old man. An unhappy old man at that. The years haven't been good time to—my chosen profession and time have finally caught up with me. Fifty five years old, divorced twice, a head full of gray hair, a body that is stiff and angry with me for all the years of abuse it took, a bunch of kids that don't want anything to do with their old man except for money, and a career that's basically dead, leaving me completely unhappy and wishing for the olden days of traveling every night to perform in front of an ecstatic crowd that would scream my name. I miss the crowds, the excitement of it all; I missed doing what I loved most in life. It leaves me longing for the nights when I would get stranded in those small towns overnight with nothing to do but head down to the local bar and drown my sorrows until my car could get fixed or the weather would clear up.
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes
But will you love me tomorrow?
It was during one of those 'stranded' nights that I met her. A smile forms on my face as I think about her pretty face—full pinks lips, high cheekbones, bright blue eyes and the brightest smile I had ever seen. The smile gets bigger when I remember how she used to smell—like vanilla and sugar. My chest feels tight when I think about her voice—soft and meek when she spoke. But when the girl sang—low and sultry, practically oozing sex appeal. When she sang, she let a side of herself shine that she normally kept hidden. I let out a deep breath when my mind wanders to what her body had looked like—young, firm, sexy, trim and tight. The way her blue jeans were so tight and hugged her hips and backside and then flared out at the bottom, the cuffs almost covering up her sneakers. The way her tank top would sometimes creep up her back and her little tattoo would peek out. I had spent hours tracing the outline of that tattoo, smiling when she would tremble in my arms because of the tickling sensation. She'd whisper 'stop it' with a shy smile on her face but we both knew that she never wanted me to stop touching her.
Her hair color was a mix of deep auburn and brown. She wore it long, down to her shoulders and she had a tendency to wear it up in a modernized beehive style. She liked to wear her hair big when she was working, but on the rare nights that I got to see her, she would wear it down for me. I remembered how it used to cascade down her bare back and I sat behind her and kissed her shoulders. I rub my fingers together now. I swear I can almost still feel how silky her hair would feel between my fingers. I could almost hear her contented sighs when I would run my fingers through that hair. That beautiful, beautiful hair.
I used to joke with her that she was born in the wrong decade—she should have grown up in the sixties. Her style, her mannerisms, her taste in music, and the way she seemed to be so much more mature than a girl of just nineteen years. She would laugh and say that would have been 'killer'. She would have loved to have been alive during that time just so she could have experienced the music first hand. I would have loved for her to have been alive during that time because then I wouldn't have been too old for her. What would have I done if she hadn't been so much younger than me? The answer still scares me to this day.s
Is this a lasting treasure
Or just a moment's pleasure?
The age difference between us was a double edged sword. It had been exciting for her, thrilling even, to have the attention of a man so much older than her. Twenty one years separated us. I came with experience that she loved. She was eager to learn from me. She would listen to my stories of being on the road and being involved with the business for so long; she hung on my every word. She came with the youth that I craved, that I needed. I listened with rapt attention as she prattled on and on about community college courses she was taking and stories from her job part time bartending at the local watering hole. Her life was simple and uncomplicated; so much unlike mine.
The little youth that I had had left on my side when I met her was fading fast and being with her gave me the opportunity, no matter how brief it was, to relive it just a little bit. I just wanted another chance to feel young and to maybe feel happy. Even though those feelings were short lived, they were well worth it.
Can I believe the magic of your sighs?
Will you still love me tomorrow?
It's hard to explain what I had with her. Was it love? Was it lust? Was I just trying to get some frustration out? Was she using me? Was I using her? Whatever it was, it worked for us. I never made her promises that I couldn't keep and she never asked me for anything. She knew who I was, she knew that I was famous and had money. She didn't want any of that. She just wanted me for who I was—an old man desperately trying to hang on to a sliver of his youth. An old man who just wanted to be happy, even if it was only for a short time. I wanted a woman to look at me like I hung the moon. I wanted a woman to moan beneath me, to beg me for my touch.
The night I met her forever changed my life. I haven't been able to find anything in my life that could match those feelings of the night and the brief time that I got to spend with her. I had let her know right away when we first met that I was a traveling man and that I had a life waiting for me at home. I didn't mention the wife or kids. But for some reason I think she knew that my family man obligations was what I was trying to forget when I was with her. She knew that nothing serious was ever going to come of what happened between us. She was fine with that. It was like she understood that I was just looking for a brief period of happiness and that she could provide me with that.
Tonight with words unspoken
You'll say that I'm the only one
But will my heart be broken
When the night meets the morning star?
I reached over for my phone. I stopped myself before my fingers touched the number pad. What was I doing? Not only is my hair going gray, is my mind as well? Did I honestly think that after fifteen years I would be able to just dial her old number and she would pick up? Did I think that when the phone stopped ringing and she answered in her soft voice that I would be able to actually speak to her? It's been fifteen years. Surely she's moved on with her life. She's probably married with a couple of kids of her own by now. She wouldn't want to talk to me. Her husband would demand to know who was calling so late. But on the other hand, maybe she did it. Maybe she was able to follow her dream of being able to get out of that one horse town. Maybe she was living her ideal life right now—singing in front of a crowd and people clamoring for her attention.
The song was almost over. That silly smile was still on my face while my mind wandered back to when I first heard her sing. That voice. You never would have suspected that a strong and sexy voice like that could have come out of a shy girl like her. You never would have known that music was her passion. You never would have suspected that she had an affinity for singing and performing. She was a good girl for the most part; until you got her in front of a microphone and a crowd. During the week she went to classes at the community college—she was studying to be an insurance representative. On the weekends, and one or two nights a week, she bartended. She dealt with old drunken men all the time. These men would hit on her, try to buy her a drink, chat her up and hope that maybe she would go home with them at the end of the night. What made me so different from the others, I had wondered the first time it happened.
I have to know that your love
Is a love I can be sure of
So tell me now and I won't ask again
I put my phone back down on the passenger seat. I wasn't going to call her. It had been pretty clear the last time that we saw each other that it was just that—the last time. There wasn't going to be any late night phone calls. There weren't going to be any letters sent. There wouldn't be any late nights together under the blankets on the sofa talking softly. It was over.
Will you still love me tomorrow?
Will you still love me tomorrow?
Will you still love me tomorrow?
"Hi. I'm Crystal…."
"Bret…." I said softly as I reached for her hand….