Guitars & Goodbyes

I couldn't stay, heartbroken as I was. I couldn't sit on the couch he hated. I no longer enjoyed showering in the shower he was too tall for. I couldn't sleep in the bed I had hoped would one day be "ours". So I woke up one particularly crappy Wednesday and began packing.

It started innocently; a cleanse. Light organizing. Hours later I sat among piles of my own mess - boxes neatly organized, labelled and stacked. In some sort of a trance I had texted my landlord and told her I was leaving. In two weeks. Though she didn't seem very pleased about the information, I didn't particularly care. No amount of judgment could possibly crush me more than he had.

But that was over a year ago. I boxed up what I needed and either sold, discarded or gave away what was left. I shoved all the belongings I simply couldn't relinquish into a teeny little 5'x5' climate-controlled storage unit, handed the lovely lady in the self-storage office a fat check and happily drove away. And that's how I ended up here.

It was a shitty apartment, really. Not anything dreamy and certainly not what I'd imagined when I saw the ad for a "modern space with floor to ceiling windows". Rented sight-unseen. The day I walked into it I said, out loud, and to no one but myself...

"...fuck."

There was simply nothing else to say. It was a modern shithole. Ironically exposed beams, a pathetic excuse for a kitchen, missing outlet covers, and what to me appeared to be the equivalent of the flooring at the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz. I was definitely taller on one side than the other. But there was this neon-lit bar downstairs. And a voice that soon became the dreamiest thing I'd come to know.

Each Friday - rain or shine - his voice would ascend to me through the floor, the windows, the air duct that led to some creepy heating system in the shared basement. It filled my shitty apartment and bounced off the lonely walls and bare floors. I would lay awake and listen to his syrupy intonations of songs I loved; poetry that moved me. And sometimes, on very special nights, acoustic Paula Abdul.

He played the guitar like he was seducing it. I could tell even through decaying layers of insulation and steel piping. I felt every fucking chord.

He strummed Black Crowes and Peter Gabriel...he crooned Ray LaMontagne. And no one has ever covered 'Mr Brightsides' like this guy. I must've made love to his voice a hundred times before I finally chose to see his face. I was afraid I would ruin the fantasy, as I had so many times before with other mysterious and beautiful things. Still, I got out of bed. I put on something cute, comfy, and unassuming. I gave my cat an extra long scratch down her spine. I walked out of my dingy apartment, fully expecting disappointment. What met me was nothing less than my fantasy realized.

Soft grey-green eyes hung gently over healthy smiling cheeks. Beneath that I glimpsed full lips, perfect teeth and a beautifully angled jaw. Broad shoulders, sturdy arms and solid legs cradled the guitar perfectly, as though they had grown around one another like an old maple tree lining an ancient farmstead fence. His fingers were long and the nail beds clean, but his hands were strong and worn and did not appear to be strangers to hard work. They moved with purpose and strength and seemed to be an entity all their own. And his voice. It was intoxicating and soothing. It forced everyone to stop and listen.

I made a concentrated effort to seem aloof as I walked through the dimly lit space, careful not to give away too much of my curiosity. I ordered a cheap shot of whiskey and an even cheaper beer. After generously tipping the bartender, I skillfully took both libations in my hands and retreated to the far side of the bar where I felt I could best observe. Drink. Be under the radar. I must've failed miserably, or perhaps it was fate, as he soon announced his break to the audience and immediately ended up standing directly in front of me. What could I do? Soooo...I giggled. I looked at the floor. He promptly requested that I look at him.

"Oh please don't look away." He said, endearing in his awkward plea. "I've been hoping to look you in the eye since you walked through the door."

I blushed. Lost my breath. Found it again.

"Even in these sweatpants?!" I practically shouted. The useless response expected from a teenager or a blubbering idiot, not a self-assured thirty-something.

"Especially in those sweatpants." He quickly replied, playfully.

Fuck. And he was looking right into my eyes with those eyes...

I let him buy me another shot. I allowed myself to look into his eyes. Again and again. I made sure to make sure to listen. But when he humbly announced that he had to get back on stage and was hoping I would be around after the second set, I made some off-handed joke that probably would have been cool twenty years ago. Ultimately, I just sounded ridiculous. Sarcasm masking insecurity. The fear of voicing my desire trumping my ability to embrace the romance of the moment. How could he possibly be interested in me?? He saw right through it. He winked, leaned in and kissed my cheek with such sincerity I basically melted into the wooden barstool beneath me.

"Please be here when I'm done."

Those were the last words spoken to me before he went back and took his place in the spotlight, casually adjusting his microphone. I was only too happy to oblige.

I don't remember the songs he played during that second set. I don't remember who I talked to or how many times I walked outside to smoke. I remember the lilt, the notes. I remember the way his sound filled the air and how everyone in the place was rapt by his voice. I remember the way he asked to walk me to my apartment...

"I live right upstairs, it's really okay."

"Either way, I'd be honored to walk with you, even if it isn't far." Fucking *swoon*.

So I let him walk me up the stairs. I let him hold the heavy door for me in the smelly hallway and I let him stand behind me as I fumbled slightly with my keys. His scent was all around me then; something between fresh baked bread, cilantro and Old Spice deodorant. He smelled like Christmas morning. I felt like a child ruddy with anticipation and intrigue, anxious to open the biggest present under the tree. I've never unlocked a door so slowly and yet so quickly in my entire life. As soon as it creaked open and I awkwardly jiggled my keys loose, he spun me around to meet his gaze and suddenly it seemed he was everywhere. He was gently closing the door behind us with his foot. He was expertly kicking off his Converse. He was speaking softly to me about my beauty...all the while his hands were on my hips, his eye contact did not break. He was surrounding me. And then his delightfully calloused fingers were enveloping my cheeks, his sinewy shoulders cradled under the palms of my nervous hands. His smile leaned in as he held my face with tenderness and almost without thinking I felt my smile rising to meet his, no longer in control of the passion simmering just below the flushed surface of my skin.

Inside the safety of my home, this went on for days; we made love like our lives depended on it. Even the light that filtered through my drapes, cycling through morning then into crisp fall afternoon and the clear cool night...even the light seemed to follow us, made love with us. It kissed our skin. It made us potent, made us laugh. It made us marvel and question and then make love again. We napped. We sustained off what precious little was available in my refrigerator - eating off of one another, on top of one another, around one another - snacking in bed like hungry, horny teenagers then tumbling around; bellies full, giggling and cackling at our roundness.

On the third day, I woke up dehydrated and sore and reached out for my lover. For so many hours I had been able to find him there, stretched out in some capacity across my queen sized bed, knowing I could grab this part of him or graze along that part of him and get exactly the response I was hoping for.

Today was different. My fingers searched empty sheets. I could feel how cold they were and I knew they had been left vacant for quite a while. I sat up slowly, hoping to hear the shuffle of his feet in the kitchen or the faint sound of a toilet flushing in the washroom. There was nothing but the white noise of my fan and the impatient traffic snaking through the city streets outside. He was gone.

I heard his voice again the following Friday, drifting up through fog and cheap construction. I stayed in bed and let it wash over me. Two weeks later, I sporadically left yet another shitty apartment.