Tyler and Emma sized one another up on the street side with the silent guitar a barrier between them. His hands rested on the graceful curve of the instrument’s body but Emma’s mind kept returning to how that same hand had recently rested on the gentler curves of her body. He looked at her with impatient expectation, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted so he could return to the song he’d been playing. Emma waited for him to begin again, wondering why he’d stopped so abruptly when she appeared. Even though she had not caught much of the song, she knew it was something he’d written since she left. The quiet and gentle melody floated through her ears and into her heart, and before she ever heard lyrics, she wondered Could that be about me? Her heart soared with hope, perhaps she would get what she wanted, an invitation to come home.
Tyler didn’t want her to hear what that song was. Emma was right, it was about her, written the night she left. He had known where to find her and knew that was what she wanted, for him to burst through her sister’s door with a clichéd bundle of flowers and an anxious plea for her to come home with him. A serenade from the sidewalk below of her favorite song. She was a lot like the other women he’d known, and they were all so predictable at this point. They loved his nonchalance at first, pretending to care as little as he did. But they wanted his confidence, and tried to suck it out of him like a leech. He really didn’t care either way, whether she stayed or went, but he could feed off the raw emotion he knew he should feel. In his mind that night, he let himself believe that he wanted and needed her there with him, and before he could evaluate if he had one iota of that as real emotion, his fingers spilled into a melody of longing and heart ache. He didn’t want her to hear it tonight, didn’t want her to have an idea that he wanted her back. He knew a song like this would make her believe he did, and he knew that wasn’t fair to her. He didn’t want her back, not anymore, and he didn’t want her to think he did, but the song was so good, hit the heart with such an exact gnaw of yearning, that he continued to play it long after his momentary feelings were forgotten.
Emma stood there, her February feet bitten through her hiking boots as she waited for him to say something or begin playing again. She wanted to know what he felt, and only through that silent guitar would he be able to tell her. She wanted to come home, to be with him again in the living room, where he’d pluck at the strings sporadically, a melody streaming through his mind but fumbling out of his fingers. Face pinched in concentration, he'd search until finding that perfect connection between what he imagined and what he heard. She’d sit there, pretending to read, pretending not to anticipate what he’d come up with, all the time staring at the same sentence on the same page for hours. Maybe this one will be about me, about us, maybe he’ll tell me how I inspire him. Then she’d immediately feel insecure and foolish for wanting something she knew he’d never do. There was no way to break into Tyler’s world when he was this focused, and it had even taken months for him to work like this with her even in the room. For that, she knew she was more privileged than most of the women he’d had in his life. But she never felt comfortable; never felt that she was enough for him, that he needed her. He was absorbed in something other than her, and he never noticed that her page never turned, that she had on a new outfit, that she walked slowly and suggestively to the bedroom, not even that she packed her things and left.
Tyler couldn’t wait anymore. He began a song, but not her song. A song from further in his past that he knew would make Emma leave. He had once insisted it was not a greater love than theirs was, but he knew how much she hated hearing it when he sang at the club. It was one of those songs that made couples look at one another and promise, I’ll never do that to you and then lace fingers or hold tightly to one another. In their dark bedroom after those shows, he'd held her and reassured her she meant more to him. It wasn’t that necessarily, but more that the woman he had written the song about really hadn’t meant as much to him as the song indicated. Just like this new one; the fleeting feelings he’d had captured was something essentially weak in all people, and he exploded it into a marriage of words and melody that would touch all that heard it. He knew how Emma would take it now, and he was right. From the first note, she knew what was coming, and she couldn't stand to hear his desire for someone else, no matter how far in the past it had existed. She fished in her pocket for her pretext for coming and tossed her key to his apartment into the empty guitar case. As she gave him one last look, the music filled the space between them and pushed her into a certain but unsteady walk away.
Tyler didn’t want her to hear what that song was. Emma was right, it was about her, written the night she left. He had known where to find her and knew that was what she wanted, for him to burst through her sister’s door with a clichéd bundle of flowers and an anxious plea for her to come home with him. A serenade from the sidewalk below of her favorite song. She was a lot like the other women he’d known, and they were all so predictable at this point. They loved his nonchalance at first, pretending to care as little as he did. But they wanted his confidence, and tried to suck it out of him like a leech. He really didn’t care either way, whether she stayed or went, but he could feed off the raw emotion he knew he should feel. In his mind that night, he let himself believe that he wanted and needed her there with him, and before he could evaluate if he had one iota of that as real emotion, his fingers spilled into a melody of longing and heart ache. He didn’t want her to hear it tonight, didn’t want her to have an idea that he wanted her back. He knew a song like this would make her believe he did, and he knew that wasn’t fair to her. He didn’t want her back, not anymore, and he didn’t want her to think he did, but the song was so good, hit the heart with such an exact gnaw of yearning, that he continued to play it long after his momentary feelings were forgotten.
Emma stood there, her February feet bitten through her hiking boots as she waited for him to say something or begin playing again. She wanted to know what he felt, and only through that silent guitar would he be able to tell her. She wanted to come home, to be with him again in the living room, where he’d pluck at the strings sporadically, a melody streaming through his mind but fumbling out of his fingers. Face pinched in concentration, he'd search until finding that perfect connection between what he imagined and what he heard. She’d sit there, pretending to read, pretending not to anticipate what he’d come up with, all the time staring at the same sentence on the same page for hours. Maybe this one will be about me, about us, maybe he’ll tell me how I inspire him. Then she’d immediately feel insecure and foolish for wanting something she knew he’d never do. There was no way to break into Tyler’s world when he was this focused, and it had even taken months for him to work like this with her even in the room. For that, she knew she was more privileged than most of the women he’d had in his life. But she never felt comfortable; never felt that she was enough for him, that he needed her. He was absorbed in something other than her, and he never noticed that her page never turned, that she had on a new outfit, that she walked slowly and suggestively to the bedroom, not even that she packed her things and left.
Tyler couldn’t wait anymore. He began a song, but not her song. A song from further in his past that he knew would make Emma leave. He had once insisted it was not a greater love than theirs was, but he knew how much she hated hearing it when he sang at the club. It was one of those songs that made couples look at one another and promise, I’ll never do that to you and then lace fingers or hold tightly to one another. In their dark bedroom after those shows, he'd held her and reassured her she meant more to him. It wasn’t that necessarily, but more that the woman he had written the song about really hadn’t meant as much to him as the song indicated. Just like this new one; the fleeting feelings he’d had captured was something essentially weak in all people, and he exploded it into a marriage of words and melody that would touch all that heard it. He knew how Emma would take it now, and he was right. From the first note, she knew what was coming, and she couldn't stand to hear his desire for someone else, no matter how far in the past it had existed. She fished in her pocket for her pretext for coming and tossed her key to his apartment into the empty guitar case. As she gave him one last look, the music filled the space between them and pushed her into a certain but unsteady walk away.
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