I sat on one of the benches with my guitar beside me, sipping coffee, watching him play. The room was soundproofed, of course, so I heard nothing. But I could see, see the way he played with his eyes closed and his thick brows furrowed, the way he swayed in time, lips moving in indecipherable code; words to a song, or counts to keep time. I could see his hands, fine-boned and strong, dance with an agility that spoke of years and years of dedicated practice. It was like the music was flowing out of him and through the guitar, like he was channeling some ancient, magical, musical wonder.
I was envious. As much as I loved music, and as long as I'd been at it, I had never reached that kind of balance. I just couldn't find that perfect place where the music was myself. I played other people's music. I could tell from watching that this man played his own.
I took another drink. The blonde man ceased his playing, his emerald eyes opening to once more survey the world around him. With surprising grace, he exited the practice room, crossing the lobby to where his gear had been tossed against the wall. He was dressed in a black-and-white tee-shirt and a pair of jeans with black combat boots. His nails were painted black, and he wore a checkered band around one wrist, a band bearing the UK flag on the other. His guitar also sported a vibrant Union Jack. As he packed up his guitar, I finished my now cool coffee.
I had been coming here for a few weeks now, finding some excuse to stay late. I always sat in the same spot, watching the blonde man play. He hadn't noticed me, hadn't once even appeared to see me. He always walked in and out of the glass-windowed room, eyes straight ahead, never turning.
As soon as he left the building, I stood, dumping my empty styrofoam cup in the trash bin. I shouldered my guitar, adjusted my hat, and walked out the door. I followed the familiar sidewalks, counting my steps. Soon I reached my apartment, ascending four flights of stairs until I finally collapsed through my front door. I immediately made more coffee, glad to be back to my own favorite brand.
I plopped down in a chair, picking up a purpleish book with a CGI depiction of a wormhole on the cover. I opened it at random, to a section about telekinesis. Good, I liked this part. I read about a computer that had been invented for quadrapalegics. They were hooked to the computer with electrodes, and their brainwaves controlled robotic arms and things. It sort of gave them mobility. It was fascinating, even though I'd read it about three hundred times. I really loved this book.
But I didn't have time today. Sighing, I set the book down on a pile of other books, on top of a crowded, dusty table. Off of the same table, I pulled an enormous textbook that I'd purchased from a local bookstore. Taking calculus a year early might have been a bit much for me, even being the nerd that I was. Then again, I could pull more all-nighters in a row than anyone else I knew... Even so, it was mind-breakingly difficult. Of course, I had a textbook from school, but I didn't like the way it explained things. If I had to rely on my school-issue book, I would surely be failing.
After I'd spent a couple of hours on calculus homework, I launched into AP biology, which was considerably easier.
By one o'clock in the morning, I'd done I'd done five-and a half hours of homwork, and spent the rest doing random research, much of it in preparation for next year's classes. Oh, and I'd also drunk about thirty thousand cups of coffee. Delicious, that stuff.
Finally, I shut down my laptop and pushed some dozen or so books off of my tiny bed. I made sure the blackout curtains were secured, and I crawled under my blanket (shades of soft forest greys, greens, and blues, with wolves and trees) and my sheets (top one grey, bottom one a nice mossy green). I sighed and settled down into the warth of my bed.
As always in the quiet moments, my thoughts turned to him. The blonde man in the rehearsal building, who played with such easy beauty in his movements, and I was sure, in his music. I didn't even know his name, but I did know that I fancied him. I'm not going to lie, he was pretty handsome, and anyone who can play the guitar like that is already in my good books.
Not that I thought I had a chance. Oh, no. There were too many things abput me that people just didn't like. I was someone that everyone else naturally avoided. Which was perfectly understandable, considering. Someone like him was proabably used to girls chasing after him.
I wasn't that type. I didn't chase, just watched. I wasn't creepy about it. But I did like to see him. Hence the daily hanging late at the rehearsal building.
I turned over onto my side, facing the windows. I closed my muddy brown eyes and pictured his. Deep, shimmering emeralds, they were, bright and beautiful, just like the rest of him.
I imagined myself actually going up to him, asking his name. Asking if maybe he'd fancy a coffee, or a bagel or a sandwich or something. I'd proably stutter, stumble over my words. I rolled over again, onto my back, sticking my arms behind my head on the pillow. I turned words over in my mind, feeling them, tasting them. I began to sing quietly, under my breath.
Everyday in the shadows, yeah,
That one's me.
The one who watches, always sitting
In the same place,
The same sparrow in the same tree.
Invisible.
I cling to you,
Stranger who is stranger than yourself.
I am no stronger than myself.
Irritated, I shook my head. That sucked! It was stupid, and- and- pathetic. I didn't cling to anyone! Rolling over one more time, I finally allowed my mind to quiet, letting the darkness of sleep take me. As always, I did not dream.
