Inkling | rejected & unpublished short stories

Strummer

            My mind kept flashing to places I cannot buy plane tickets to; the past, the comfort of her presence. I stumbled on the Welcome mat and a memory as I entered my shabby and desolated apartment. A curse word lingered on my tongue but it hung there like a hook and did not fall off along with my sigh. The table was still covered with a conflation of overdue assignments and evasive music sheets.

"Listen to this song," I heard my own voice from a few months back, "I wrote it last night."

I remembered her face, plain and ready to give her ear and divided attention to my piece. Well, she was a bit peeved that I dragged her out of the library from a homework discussion. But I knew, she would listen to me anyway. She would breathe in every word, roll her eyes judgingly and beautifully at tweaks and off-key lyrics. As the song evolved from the first verse to the last lyric, she would either look mesmerized or confused.

Usually it was the latter. Then, it would be my job to explain.

"It's about a girl who makes the best coffee in the world. I met her at the café I hung out at during the semester break," I would say, "About a model who rocked moss green. About my heart crasher at eleven. About our new school flag. About the feelings I get after 2 am."

Nod, she would never miss that step before replying to my clarifications.

The songs were never about her. Writing about her would be complicated and ethereally peculiar.

I shook my head from the flashback and barged into the shower armed with my purple towel.

_________________

Morning came and turned the sky to bright colours. I woke to the surprising fact that I had a good night's sleep. She would be so jealous of me.

"I can't stop trading my soul with being awake during the early a.m's,"she would scowl, noting her mild amnesia.

7 am, I still trip on my shoe and a reminiscence of a private joke.

I carried my guitar with one hand and ran to the sidewalk. I almost fell over a crack and a hope that we could start over.

As strangers again.

These memories were making me clumsy.

I found my spot on the streets and started to make my territory noticeable. Swinging up the guitar and strumming, I started to sing.

Some mornings, I would let myself free. I will come unprepared, not a single verse written the night before and I would just sing. That day, I knew I never wrote a single line about her but my head conjured up a lullaby I was scared to compose with pen and paper.

I need those bite-sized hellos,

"How's life" so it goes,

We sit over it listening to echoes,

Over lost time she call pause

An old coin clad in her hands,

As she strummed the heart,

Back when I didn't know it had strings

The song came and went equally quick. Relief was an understatement of what I was feeling as I wiped my sweaty forehead. My audience, as always, were passer-bys fumbling for coins. No one recorded. My hands shook as I sat down on the ground and ripped a piece of paper from my lecture book. My pen betrayed me, calling out a deficit of blue ink as I tried to jot down the lyrics I just sang. I groaned, resorting to closing my eyes and giving up.

My fingers were red and it bled, pricked by the sharp strings of the guitar and a secret I told her that scared her away.

I just wanted her back.

Needed.

"How's life?"

I snapped my eyes open.

"Nice song," she grinned, crouching down to drop something into my tin coin box. A tissue, for the cuts on my finger. I was afraid to move in chances that I would fall again. Then she would be gone as soon as my elbow kissed the floor.

I blinked and she was still there.

"How's life?" I stuttered back.

"You first," she laughed and I finally got on my feet, chuckling in pure disbelief.

So it goes.