They say it’s serious.
Hell, even I say it’s serious when we sit in the little kitchen in our studio, having tea. His seat is empty – nowadays, he retires earlier and buys flowers at the florist shop at the corner before speeding toward his car (he drives now, too) and jumping in to pick her up. I imagine her waiting him at the door, all nervous and wound up, hair perfectly made and a smile on her rosy lips. She is lovely. It’s serious.
She doesn’t come to rehearsals because she’s polite – she knows that we have to work. She doesn’t try to fit in by becoming our “mate” or “buddy” – she is a female friend, and she follows every law of a female friend. She doesn’t overreact when the fan girls corner Thom and she doesn’t place shackles around his neck to keep him close. She’s perfect.
I’m her favorite. It’s not because she likes me more than anybody, it’s just that Thom and I spend more time together and thus I spend more time with her. I’m a third person in their relationship – and I think that both of them are happy about it. “Jonny, would you have dinner with me and Nicole tonight?” And so it happens we dine at least once in two weeks together, keeping up the liveliest discussion that is actually interesting. Thom doesn’t swear in front of her and he pours more wine in her glass when he sees it’s empty; he pulls up a chair and opens the car door and all of his actions are measured by the code of chivalry.
He is 30 now and sometimes when we sit at the little café in the open air, with her chatting lightly about something, I feel like a teenager. They are a perfect couple, it seems, and both are very happy and in love, and I’m there – disheveled from the all-nighter of writing, my neck stiff and fingers calloused badly, my face unshaven and eyes bloodshot. I feel out of place and want to tell him that I’d rather be sleeping now, but he says that she misses me and I’m to have breakfast with them. I can’t really say no to him.
“So, Jonny, when are you going to present a nice girl to us?” she smiles at me and her smile lights up the whole world, it seems.
“Um, well, I’m single,” I rub my neck, hoping that the pain goes away.
“Thom, don’t you think Jonny ought to find a nice girl?”
“Um, well…”
“Jonny, I know tons of girls, just tell me if you want to go on a double-date.”
“Not at the moment. First I need to finish a few things…” I trail off and ask the passing waiter to give me more coffee. When I turn back to the table, they are talking about something else again, and I get out a pen and draw on a napkin, breathing in the fresh scent of the morning.
One time I was to meet them in the usual café and I was running late for some reason. I spotted them sitting at the table from far away and was about to wave my hand and shout when something caught my attention. I guess it was the way Thom leaned closer to her face in the conversation, a smile playing on his lips. I saw a flash of teeth and his mouth landed on hers. I was about to look away, a blush creeping up my cheeks, however something in the way his eyes were closed and the way he would smile against her lips when they would stop mid-kiss drew my attention and I felt an unfamiliar tug at my heart.
It was the first time I saw Thom being a lover. I saw him being a friend, a band mate, a drinking buddy, a bully, however I’ve never seen him being a lover. I shook my head and stopped for a second, shoving my hands in my pockets. There was a deep feeling of loneliness in me and for some reason I felt like folding and folding myself like a piece of paper until all that was left of me was a small tight flicker of white.
“Hi,” I plunged on the seat, taking the menu in my hands and not looking at him at all. The waiter, seeing me, poured me a cup of coffee instantly and I thanked him, smiling briefly. A nice young man. Short haircut and a pleasant face that makes you want to drink water and run in the foggy mornings.
“Hello,” he looked at me and our eyes met involuntarily. His smiling blue ones and my slightly confused brown ones. The breeze was blowing across our table, playing with my fringe, the too-long locks getting in my eyes. I felt…this tingling feeling that goes tapping through your body, leaving you skittish all over.
I suddenly remembered Thom when he was 17 and I was 14, when he was talking to me as if to himself and I was eager to show him that I can’t really express it, but I understand him to some degree. He was talking about carbon monoxide. I wanted to tell him something, but I couldn’t find the words.
I guess it is stupid to say, but I fell in love with him overnight.
Of course I’m aware that probably the feeling before was too subtle for me to grasp, however that night the dreams, the fantasies, the small pieces of our being paraded in front of me. I was sweating and tossing, pushing my head against the pillow and mumbling phrases that I said years before, smiling half-consciously.
Us kicking a pebble while we were walking down the street, talking about music.
Him sleeping in the hotel bed and throwing a pillow at me as I tried to wake him early enough for the plane.
His hair brushing my fingers and me thinking how soft it was in between other musings.
The way the tone of his voice changed when we were alone after a tiring gig.
When I woke up, I was truly happy. For years I longed for the feeling that would rip my guts away and never mind that it was not mutual – honestly, I couldn’t care less. I was in love, on the verge of tearing my hair away, and the fullness of the emotion was quite enough to cut into small pieces and devour day-by-day, savoring each shade of it.
We are sitting in the café alone, he and I, because she has some business to do in the town. It’s been a couple of months since he burst into the studio and informed us that he’s done it, that she said yes, and that we were all invited, of course. Now she is busy with the dress, the church and the arrangement of flowers and he is smoking his rare cigarette and the smoke from his lungs mixes with the wind.
I’m enjoying the little piece of his flesh I can see without making it noticeable that I’m looking at him.
He crushes a cigarette in the ashtray.
Then he takes my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing them against it. He coughs lightly, rubs his cheek against my hand, squeezes it. I feel shudders of moist breath on my dry skin, and his eyes are closed.
He finally lets it go and places his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands.
“I am in love with you,” I say it evenly. I can see us from the side. Him clutching his face and me sitting there, destining myself to the life of a vulture.
“She really is perfect,” he places his hands on his legs, staring ahead, “But somehow, somewhere, for some reason, it seems right for me to tell her that it’s over.”
I want to tell him something, but I can’t find the words. So I repeat myself.
“I’m in love with you.”
He takes the ring off his finger and places it on the table.
We both look at how it shines in the sun.
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