an excerpt from a novel that i am not writing
There is a bus stop in front of me and my steps speed up. There are always hands and faces flying towards mine when I walk past this spot, there was a day I dreamed I could jump so far it'd be like just flying over it. This time, though, the enormous parka on the bench is oblivious to me. He has spotted someone across the street, walking into Wendy's, and he knows her, or he thinks he does. There are 4 lanes of busy traffic between them, but he doesn't care. "AMANDA." His voice is amazingly loud, but it doesn't really sound like he is yelling. There is none of the strain and tear, none of the grossest back-reach of his throat. It's as though he's just turned up his volume knob, because his tone is the same as it would be if she was sitting next to him. "AMANDA."
I keep walking, I try to think about anything else -- I don't think Harry is going to die, or thant Ron is going to be evil. This song is about secret love. I have to find a pen and I scribble the name of the song that shuffle chose on my hand. I will remember to put it on a playlist that will someday be a cassette tape that might really be a story, a story about wizards.
The thing is, there were soft pads on my headphones when I bought them, they felt like earmuffs, but they have long since been lost. I am left with the feeling that I am carrying a boombox on my shoulder and everyone can hear what I am listening to. I am determined to impress them. The soundtrack to This Girl Walking By needs to be perfect, and I flip forward past twenty of my favorite songs before I find it, The Song For This Girl's Approach Towards Coffee.
This song, the one I have chosen, it is great. It is December and I am listening to this song about July -- everyone will know that I am Warm and Comfortable and Bright in a dark world. That's important. I will glow, I am glowing, as I climb the stairs to a familiar porch full of familiar faces who could care less about my aura. There are men lit up by laptops in each corner, the biggest table is stuffed with teenage girls pulling their ass-hats down for decency, and there is a boy I know whose eyes are half-closed out of boredom as he listens to a blonde girl talk about her college education. I touch his shoulder, we smile, it is just routine but it is still genuine, because he has a beautiful face and when he bares his white teeth at me it's impossible not to return the gesture. Maybe he noticed The Song leaking from my headphones, maybe he thought of the time we drove around in his car with no air conditioning and sweat through the seats, maybe he remembered my name and all of it's ramifications when he said "Hi Summer."
I want to turn up my own volume knob when I respond, I want to boom so loud that this girl and those cotton skirts and those laptops and this familiar face are all blown off the porch and into the street. I want their faces to change... I am so quiet that I can't hear my own voice over The Song that is ending now. And my music player is on shuffle, and the next song, the one that begins when I'm opening the door, it is so perfect that I have to turn it up even louder, and I see people turn around once I'm inside, and I know that they have heard me.
july, july! - The Decemberists
I keep walking, I try to think about anything else -- I don't think Harry is going to die, or thant Ron is going to be evil. This song is about secret love. I have to find a pen and I scribble the name of the song that shuffle chose on my hand. I will remember to put it on a playlist that will someday be a cassette tape that might really be a story, a story about wizards.
The thing is, there were soft pads on my headphones when I bought them, they felt like earmuffs, but they have long since been lost. I am left with the feeling that I am carrying a boombox on my shoulder and everyone can hear what I am listening to. I am determined to impress them. The soundtrack to This Girl Walking By needs to be perfect, and I flip forward past twenty of my favorite songs before I find it, The Song For This Girl's Approach Towards Coffee.
This song, the one I have chosen, it is great. It is December and I am listening to this song about July -- everyone will know that I am Warm and Comfortable and Bright in a dark world. That's important. I will glow, I am glowing, as I climb the stairs to a familiar porch full of familiar faces who could care less about my aura. There are men lit up by laptops in each corner, the biggest table is stuffed with teenage girls pulling their ass-hats down for decency, and there is a boy I know whose eyes are half-closed out of boredom as he listens to a blonde girl talk about her college education. I touch his shoulder, we smile, it is just routine but it is still genuine, because he has a beautiful face and when he bares his white teeth at me it's impossible not to return the gesture. Maybe he noticed The Song leaking from my headphones, maybe he thought of the time we drove around in his car with no air conditioning and sweat through the seats, maybe he remembered my name and all of it's ramifications when he said "Hi Summer."
I want to turn up my own volume knob when I respond, I want to boom so loud that this girl and those cotton skirts and those laptops and this familiar face are all blown off the porch and into the street. I want their faces to change... I am so quiet that I can't hear my own voice over The Song that is ending now. And my music player is on shuffle, and the next song, the one that begins when I'm opening the door, it is so perfect that I have to turn it up even louder, and I see people turn around once I'm inside, and I know that they have heard me.
july, july! - The Decemberists