Disclaimer.
And The Show Must Go On
What she'd given up she'd never know she never left that option open for herself. She didn't yearn for it or wish for it, she didn't want to know because she didn't think about it. But he did; Of course he did and if she had let her thoughts wander to it for a moment she'd long for it too.
She'd never abandoned him though, at least she didn't think so, she stills saw him and talked to him; she still listened to his music.
He played at a shop buried in the heart of the city, the real city, where real people went, not tourists. He played their once a week, and she almost never missed it. Almost.
The last time she hadn't gone had been her wedding day. He'd been invited.
No matter how long ago their romance was or how long she'd known him, his music never ceased to amaze her.
His music was his passion. His life. She knew that, and she always wanted to support it. Sometimes she wouldn't talk to him, maybe he was talking to a pretty girl or looking particularly forlorn, or maybe it just didn't seem like he would want to talk to her. He always knew she came though and that's all that really mattered.
She always sat in the middle, the middle seat of the middle table in the middle of the room. She always sat there; she'd picked her seat carefully without thinking about it at all. She never knew how she'd picked her seat because she never thought of it but she'd picked it because it wasn't close enough to really feel the music, but wasn't far enough so that she couldn't hear, she picked it because it wasn't too far in the dark so that he couldn't see her but not too close to the light so that he could see her well. Shed picked it to be and acquaintance, to be there for him but by no means intimate.
He sat in front of the crowd with his guitar each night, and played old songs he'd written years age and sometimes new ones. She never understood the new ones. The old ones she knew too well to forget.
She always stayed the whole show. People sometimes thought she was his lover, then they saw the ring and then they thought she was his wife. But slowly, people who came regularly started to figure things out.
She couldn't be his wife because every night a different man would come to pick her up. Every night another man with a ring so akin to her own would take her hand and escort her out.
Then they thought it was an affair, they never did figure it out. Only two men knew; only two men and a woman.
--
Tonight was the same as any other; she came in and took her seat in the middle, and watched him. He sat there and for the first time she realized how strange it was he came here every week. How strange it was that he came here still. He doesn't need the money, she thought; she'd always supposed he came here because it was an outlet but the way he looked just then looked like he didn't want to be there at all.
She already made her presence known to him. She'd walked in the door and smiled.
"Hey" she said with a smile pausing for a second by his chair incase he was in the mood to talk, he never was these days.
"Hey" he said softly, he looked at her, like he wanted to say something but nothing came out, so she shrugged and gave a small wave and went to find her seat.
-
Her husband always made sure she was okay, sometimes he didn't ask or let her know, but he'd always be checking in his own way. He always left work a little earlier each day to come and see her. He always called on her in the middle of the day to see if she still loved him. He wasn't worried. He was just in love and after a few years he hadn't fallen out; that may be why he'd been able to capture her because his love never faltered, if anything, in time, it grew.
Everything she could have, he made sure to give her. He spoiled her and that was all there was too it. He was gentle and kind to her. Nobody understood that. On the outside he was worn and bitter, that's what everyone saw but people understood that that's what war did to a body. The war had used him well past his capabilities but for her he was always just-so.
It was a big house to live in everyday, and she was a small girl; but somehow her unfamiliarity with the luxury had made her the perfect face to come home to at the end of the day. She wasn't considered beautiful by means of regular standards but she was pretty, beauty was untouchable, but pretty, pretty was everyday and every moment. Her personality wasn't charismatic or endearing but that was part of being pretty. People loved it. Especially two.
He never knew what had happened between his wife and that other man, he didn't care and he didn't want to know. He'd gotten the girl in the end and he knew she would never leave him; not because he was arrogant or big-headed, which he was, but because he just knew she wouldn't.
--
And he played through the night, he didn't move from his stool. He sometimes shifted but he never got up, not until the end. In the past years she'd probably seen him standing two or three times. His music was his extension to the real world. He moved through it and saw through it, some days he would close his eyes and not look up once all night. Sometimes his eyes would wander but his music never faltered, in all her years of knowing him it hadn't faltered once.
--
He always waited for her to leave to play his last song. She never knew. But it was always the same song, and it was always about her. It was one song about her she'd never heard. It was a song he wished she'd hear and answer, but couldn't bring himself to play for her. No, he wasn't cruel. Because he still believed, deep down, she loved him most; but no matter what strong feelings lay buried he couldn't bring himself to uproot her foundations, she was happy. He could have made her happier, but she was still happy.
When they'd met he'd written songs for her, about her, and he would play them. She loved it when he made music; she especially loved when it was for her. He didn't always tell her but it was always for her.
When they had been together it had been perfect, as perfect as romance could be. She was what his life needed. Without her it was dull, it was regular, almost dark, but with her it was perfect and somehow he'd done the same for her. Everything was perfect, everything was perfect until the war.
He'd had to leave her then, he'd had to fight; and she would wait for him to come back fighting from home, safe.
He'd come back for her, but someone else had come back first. Someone who needed her too, Someone who loved her too; Someone who, like him, needed a little light in his world. But did he ever shed some in hers? He didn't think so but it didn't really matter because he'd come too late, he'd gotten held back at the end of the war and in a months time someone had taken what was waiting for him.
She was his inspiration, she still was; how many songs had he written about her that no one had ever heard? He'd never made himself a name in music, he'd never tried very hard maybe because he couldn't stand the thought of using his love for her or maybe he was afraid he'd loose their Saturday night evenings together.
He loved it when he played in the restaurant because she always came, every time but once. She'd invited him to her wedding, he didn't go still half wishing she'd come back to him, so he waited playing his guitar playing every song he ever wrote for her but she never came through the door. The next week, she didn't even mention it. She didn't notice he wasn't at her wedding.
That someone else had finished the deed; that someone else had taken every last bit of her from him everything except his memories and those memories could just about kill him.
But she still came every week, he couldn't understand why she was a shell of the lover he had the precious pearl inside was in another man's hand. He wouldn't stop her from coming because he still loved her and he wouldn't stop playing as long as she came. So he watched her and he longed for her but she never came to him when he needed her most. Not when some other woman had tried to claim him, not when he was feeling his worst, she never came when he wanted her to say anything to him more then anything else. She only spoke to him when it didn't matter. And someone else always took her home at the end of the night.
