The airport was buzzing with activity. Amy, with her duffel thrown over one shoulder and her guitar slung on her back, hurried through the crowds of noisy human life.
Her heels clicked on the tile floor; her bare legs shivered. The airport's temperature was barely above freezing, Amy reflected, and she should have worn those jeans.
She stepped outside, into the gloomy London rain and instantly felt her spirits droop. Rain fell in a steady drizzle, there was no distinguishing between each drop of rain. It was as if someone sat in the clouded sky, slowly pouring out a bucket of frigid water.
She raised her hand and a taxi pulled up to the curb. She gave him Ian's address and settled into the backseat, arranging her duffel and guitar neatly on the seat next to her.
The driver sped away and Amy closed her eyes, afraid of what was to come.
In all honestly, she didn't remember the source of the argument that had driven them apart. She remembered only the fighting, the struggle to contain herself, the horror of watching Ian's mask crumple, seeing him yell at her to get out, feeling his contempt and scorn.
She shuddered to think of it and she wondered why she was going back.
The time passed all too quickly. The taxi driver announced their arrival and Amy nodded listlessly, feeling dull and stupid.
She pulled out the required bills, numbly handing them over to the driver, who snatched at them greedily. like he'd never seen money before. Grabbing her duffel and guitar, she stood in the driveway, surveying Ian's house.
It was the same way she remembered it: the tall, thick posts holding up the ceiling for an expansive veranda. Wilting roses sat drenched in slushy black mud. She smiled looking at them, remembering how Ian had always taken such care in making his flowers grow.
But now they were drooping, the weight of the water collected in their petals pulling them down. Like me. She thought. My past mistakes are pulling me down too.
It was a sobering thought. Amy gulped as she looked at Ian's house. Its brown door beckoned her, its shiny knob pleaded with her to come up and swing it open as she once had, merely announcing, "I'm here!"
But now formality must be taken. How was she supposed to explain to him that she was coming to stay? Would he even let her in?
She sighed and stepped forward.
Slowly, slowly, her feet crept forward, with ever step the clicking of her heels reminded her how stupid she was.
You-are-Stupid! You-are-Stupid! Her heels cried and her brain began to pick up the chant.
Stop it. She told herself. She was at the door. Raising her hand, she knocked on the wood, hating how hollow her knock sounded.
Amy's heart was pounding within her chest. She felt sweat dripping down her back.
Ian opened the door.
"Hello." She said.
Ian looked at her, his eyebrows raised, and for one long moment Amy wondered if it would be . . . if it could be like it had been.
"Goodbye." Ian said. And he shut the door in her face.
"Lovely." Amy moaned. She plopped her duffel down on the cement ground and sank down to sit on it. At least the ground was dry.
She slid the straps off her guitar case off her back and laid it on the ground beside her. Tenderly, she unsnapped it and lovingly looked inside at the light wood surrounded by rose velvet.
Her hands were grasping, lifting it out of its case before she knew what she was doing. She set it on her legs and pressed down with her left hand, plucking at the strings with her right.
She played with her eyes shut, reflecting on memories from so long ago. She started with the fire that had destroyed her parents and all Amy held dear. She moved on to happy days with Grace, her fingers and her brain somehow knowing the correct strings to press as her right moved up and down, gently picking the strings in a soft background harmony.
She played her memories, feeling herself drift away in the music.
It was a sad song, for her life had not been easy. It was one of toil and stress, of heartbreak and pain, of broken dreams and lost loves.
She moved her hand, ready to play a F chord, when the door opened.
Ian stood, looking down at her. His eyes were teary, his face blotched.
"How'd you know?" He asked. "How'd you know what I was feeling?"
Amy looked up at him, questioning. "What do you mean? I was just playing." She decided not to tell him what had really inspired the chords.
Ian shook his head, running a hand through his raven hair. "I don't know. It's . . . it's uncanny. It was like you were playing in my mind. You know? Like everything I was feeling you reflected in the music."
Amy stood up, still holding the guitar tight against her body. "Can I come in?"
Ian nodded. Picking up Amy's duffel, he held the door open for her as she stepped into the house of anguish.
Thank you thank you everyone for your reviews filled with love and CC.
Champ . . . first of all . . . did you really think that I would leave you like that? OF COURSE THIS ISN'T A ONESHOT!
XD It's ok.
So . . . when I said thick I'm pretty sure I meant "loud" or . . . "strong." I don't know why I used "thick" and now that you pointed it out it sounds incredibly stupid.
I'm going to go fix that.
LOL, I did go overboard with my metaphors didn't I? I'll have to fix that too . . . and because I don't have your review in front of me I haven't replied to everything.
Thanks to Star, Rival, iheartNYCity, and innercornerhighlight, and Ruby (we miss you girl so much)
Thanks to all of you for the CC and one more thing . . . .
Rival . . . I don't think I write Amian that well and I will update The Twisted Affair soon . . . I'm working on it right now . . .
So . . . . about this story. I don't know why I love incorporating the music into this so much. So if you don't like it don't hesitate to say so, because I'm not so sure how I feel about it myself.
And also . . . the lacking author's note last time was done on purpose. Its not that I didn't want to say something . . . .
I included "Lovely" just for fun. :PPPPPP
Adios, amigos!
