Story 4 (which is very anachronous and the worst so far)
I really think he knows.
Strange, it makes me jittery and excited.
He watches me with that spark of amusement in his eyes, and I, for once, feel like a riddle-maker. He doesn’t like it that way, I can tell by the impatient tremor in his hand when he picks up his cup of tea. The spoon hits the porcelain edge and he steadies himself. An abrupt look in my direction. I pretend that I’m looking out the window.
I wonder what was the thing that sparked his knowledge. Maybe the usual brush of our elbows transmitted my thoughts to him somehow. Maybe during one of our midnight talking sessions he realized that I couldn’t meet his eye for reasons other than shyness. If not, it must’ve been the notes then.
I can tell by the way he restrains himself and tries not to drink when we are out. He sits there on the couch - stiff, his palms between his thighs, until he decides that it’s all meaningless and he downs his usual amount of alcohol in half-time. I wipe the thin film of perspiration off his forehead when he’s asleep. There’s a note between two of my fingers, and I almost slide it into his pocket. I stop, think twice, and put it in my pocket instead. When he wakes up he spends some moments blinking, and when his minds comes back to him he turns his pockets over to find that they are empty.
There’s strange atmosphere when we play today. Small club and it’s so dark we don’t see the audience. It’s almost as if we are performing in front of a roaring dark. I think Thom attempts to jump in the darkness from the stage a couple of times.
His knuckles are white on the microphone stand and he squeezes his eyes shut. I manage a quick peek at the rough line of his jaw and cheekbone before returning to my guitar. His hair is sticking to his forehead and his voice is clean.
He sways and shakes and twists his hands and narrows his eyes as if trying to look for the faces in the dark. His guitar playing is crazed and he messes a couple of times – something that always drives him mad. He then collects his scattered self from the stage and concentrates on technique, and the rest of the gig it’s purely technical, with his eyes clear and cold sweat running down his neck.
He’s pale when we finish and exit. The rest of the guys walk on while he is giggling at something and I try to make sense of his mumblings. He looks at me then and his smile fades. His knees weaken and he shatters and braces himself against the wall, and I come to his help and lift him upright with my arms under his armpits. His lips find the soft spot at my throat and I feel his cold cheek pressed against my skin.
“Is it true? Tell me, please…please,” he repeats it as a mantra, pressing his cold lips to me repeatedly while I still hold him, “…please, tell me,” he pleads.
He stands upright then, his eyes wide with shock.
“I’m sorry Jonny,” he says, “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
I sneak to the club and bring us back two bottles of beer while we sit on the floor and tense each time we hear footsteps, afraid to be discovered. We giggle at nothing at particular and then clink out bottles before each drink.
When the exhaustion takes charge his head leans toward my shoulder dreamily and I lower my head to his, our hair mingling. His knee sways lightly and touches mine and I scoot closer to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“It’s true then,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Sneaky little bastard,” he sighs and I let out a brief laugh.
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