Alex's POV
The café lights start to dim and talk becomes a murmur as I step onto the tiny stage, guitar clutched close to my chest. My fingers caress the strings, as fluid as air, and I illicit a gentle sigh. This is my escape, my reprieve—this is where the tumultuous roar inside my head is silenced, where I can lose myself in the notes and let go, if only for a while, of the burden I am carrying. For tonight, that is not the case. There's an anticipation in the air, as if the world's holding its breath to see what it'll do next, and I can't help but think it's because of her — the girl in blue.
I glance across the room, locking eyes with her on the table by the window. She's not gone, sketchbook out, pencil gripped like she's drawing something more than just faces. Her hair is falling across a shoulder, and I can even from this distance see the way her hazel eyes shine with something — maybe curiosity or a secret she's not quite ready to spill. She has a blue scarf on, blue as bright blue summers-only sky, and it sets her apart, makes her look like the only real thing in a world of shade."I know her," she says with a nod to the waitress.
I'm clearing my throat, twisting the mic, and the audience — about 100 people, give or take — is tilting forward on tiptoes: "Good evening, you all," I say, my inflection sandpapery more than I'd hoped. "My name is Alex Reed and I'm going to play you some music tonight. Hope you enjoy it."
My fingers pluck the opening chords, a lulling melody I penned last spring, when the city was in full bloom and I was attempting to let go. The music swells in the café and enfolds the tables like a caress, and I close my eyes and let the music have me. But as the song hits its halfway point, I get that feeling — a pull, as if someone is looking at me, but really looking at me. I look up and there she is, looking at me, her pencil stilled. There's a softness to her face, something that tightens my chest, and I almost muff a note.
I finish the last chord, the final note hangs lingering in the air, and the audience claps politely. I'm smiling, but I'm not in the room.I'm stuck on her—on how she'd looked at me, like she'd spotted more than the guy with the guitar. I shake it off as I go back to reading the setlist. Then the next is a cover, something lively and fun to keep the pace, but as I start playing I see her coughing into her scarf, her shoulders shaking ever so slightly. She looks away, trying to conceal it, but I note the way her hand shakes as she picks up her pencil once more.
My fingers are stumbling into the strings and I cover that with a crazy riff but my mind is racing. Is she okay? She feels somehow fragile, like a wounded bird with a broken wing, but she's struggling to fly anyway. I don't know about her past, but I've stared pain in the face, see, God knows I've lived with it long enough.
The music stops and I drink water, my throat suddenly dry. I look over at her table again and she's drawing, her chin tucked down but her eyes flick to mine for a second. There is a question there, or perhaps an answer, and I make a choice — I'm irresponsible — but it is the right one.
This is another one of the new songs," I tell them, sounding a little bit closer to normal. "It's called 'For the Girl in Blue.' Enjoy it.".
A ripple of whisper goes through the room, and I see her stiffen, her pencil drawing a line above the paper. She blushes and looks down, but not before I see the smile in the corner of her mouth. It's tiny, barely noticeable, and it lights up the room like daylight.
I begin to play, the piece a gentle lament, a forlorn memory I have not yet experienced. The lyrics spill, plain but true — about someone or someone who is storm when they look at you like the ocean, a heart full of dreams, and a smile that can make it all make sense to you in do-overs." It's not my greatest achievement, but it is true, and as I sing, I look at her hoping she catches what I can't say.
Her eyes are shiny and for a moment, I think she's going to cry, but she blinks it away, the smile reaching all the way down into her eyes. She's keeping something from me, and I know it—something amazing, something she doesn't want to burden the world with. But right now, with music standing between me and her, it feels as if we're dispensing with clandestine and she is the only one in the room.
The final note fades, and the audience claps, their hands a little harder this time but I hardly hear them. I'm standing there looking at her, waiting for something — a cue, an indication. She folds her sketchbook and clutches it to her arm, and then stands up, the scarf falling from one shoulder. I believe for a second she's about to walk away, and my chest is tightening again, but she doesn't. She approaches the stage, though slowly, slowly, and makes her way to where I am standing.
That was fabulous," she tells you, still light, yet hard as a rock. "Thank you, Alex."
I swallow, my mouth parched. "You're welcome. Emma, right?"
She nods, her eyes roving mine, and I try to read what I'm seeing I suppose. A smiling man with a guitar, or a man haunted by his past for far too long, perhaps. Or maybe both. Maybe neither.
"Hang around for the rest of the set?" "Why is that?" I blurt out, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can halt them.
She pauses - looks back towards the door, towards me. "I'd be so grateful for that," she says, and something in the way she spoke makes me think she's being sincere.
She goes back to her table, and I go back to playing, to feeling the strings with my fingers again. Then the next song is a banger, a favourite with the crowd, but I'm still with her — on the way she looked at me, on the cough she tried to cover, on the smile that was a gift. Don't have a sense of her past, but I do care. I want to know what brought her here alone in a cafe, drawing strangers like she's searching for something before it's too late.
As I'm playing, I glance over at her table a couple of times and each time, she's hovering, her eyes sparkling like she's just on the verge of tears. There's something hard in her, down somewhere, but you've got to look for it, and it pulls at something in me, something I thought left with my brother. Guilt, maybe, or hope. I don't know yet.
The session ends and the audience claps, some placing money into my case. I smile my thanks, giving away nothing and, as I pack up my kit, I can't help but look over at her table. She's back sitting, sketchbook out once more, pencil making broad, confident strokes. I want to speak to her, to ask her about her drawings, her hopes, her lies, but I don't know where to begin.
Maybe I don't have to. Perhaps this is all there is — a song, a smile, a moment occupied in a packed café. But as I slung my guitar over my back and left the stage, I knew that it was not. There was something about her, something that felt like the start of something, and I wasn't ready for it to be over.
And just being with her then I see her coughing up phlegm again, her shaking hand and I think about it—what if she's hiding something else from me…how already I had bitten off more than I could chew.