The Drummer
For the rhythmist who, once you give him a pair of drumsticks, thinks he owns you.
He sits in the second-to-last seat of the bus. Head down, hands tightly gripping white-taped drumsticks, beating out a tattoo, louder and louder, faster and faster.
It is night, the scene flickers with the yellow glow of streetlights as a school bus speeds down the highway. It is filled with teenagers, willing away the angst of the disappointment by singing loudly and playing dirty games they'll get in trouble for later.
Alone, in a bubble of quiet, the drummer sits. Taps. Drums.
His lips pout in concentration, his lank brown hair hangs in his eyes but he's too busy even to shake it away. He keeps pulse with his right foot against the seat across from him, its occupant too busy with the games to notice.
A lone guard girl sits just as quietly. Looking out the back window, pretending not to watch him as he beats his hands into obedience. The white glow of headlights from the cars behind them reduces her view of him to a silhouette. She doesn't mind. She has always loved black and white.
She watches the intensity, the passion, the anger that goes into his private performance and pretends she doesn't know why. She wants to tell him to stop torturing himself, but she knows that self-discipline is sometimes a brutal and necessary art. Besides, she can't tear her eyes away.
Faster, harder, an impossible rhythm is sounded out. She can see the gentle lines of blood of a hundred tiny cuts from the tape holding the sticks together and, for some reason, her vision blurs if only for a moment.
Eventually he stops takes a deep breath, then another. And another. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding as he wipes his hands on the seat and the sticks on the back of his pants.
He looks up, tucks his hair back and meets her curious glance. She chances a smile at him. He blinks and turns back to his drum pad. She goes back to counting cars.
Gradually the pulse slows, the beats get softer and rain starts to tap its own rhythm against the roof of the bus. She smiles, thanks the gods that its over and leans against the back of her seat, a slow smile spreading across her face as she listens to the others voices rise and fall around them.
He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, warm breath making patterns on the cold glass, pretending he's not watching her. She sneaks a glance at his hands, pretending she's not looking at him as he recovers from his wounds. They watch each other calmly while she cries a silent tear for each streak of blood.
