Guitar

A Story by olgaoka

A simple little story about a guy and a girl, just another 'he' and 'she', a sofa, and a guitar. :)

GUITAR

Torn. Shattered. Confused. Lost. She sat on his sofa, tensely tracing circles with her hand around the burgundy cushion.

“Could you sing something for me?”

He smiled. “Pick a language.”

“Doesn’t matter. Whichever one you want to sing in.”

He picked up the guitar and set it on his knee. “This song is in Arabic…”

The first few soft notes, and she felt a silent panic growing inside her. No, this was the opposite of what she needed. Not music, anything but music. Music had always had a strange effect on her. It was an assured trigger of emotions. She remembered her first time at the symphony, how the music had softly lifted her off the velvet seat and transported her mind to that place where everything is tangible, real, overwhelmingly present. She remembered leaving the concert hall that day with tiny tears gathering in her eyes, though she had no idea why. Music always did that to her. It released her mind. And right now, as the strumming of the guitar began to form the first notes of a melody, the last thing she wanted was for her mind to be released. There was the ghost, the lingering spirit of her past whom she longed so much to forget. The one that she could not allow herself to think about. The one that would surely encircle her within seconds as she immersed herself in the music.

The guitar played on. He closed his eyes and started to sing. She froze. His voice, there, so close to her, so soft, soothing, she sat dumbfounded, she didn’t understand. Slowly, a gentle warmth encircled her, and she was there, there, in the soft murmurs of the guitar, in his voice, in the music.

There was no ghost, for ghosts come in from the past, and there was no past. Or future. Or even present, for that matter. It seemed that time had tired of sprinting on and had paused for a moment to breathe. No ghost. Only the man sitting across from her on that sofa, singing to her, only for her. She didn’t understand the words, but she knew that every word was meaningful, every word resonated in her body, softly soothing the cracks in her heart, reassembling, healing, making her feel safe for the first time in the past year. Bringing her back to life.

Slowly, she let herself go, sinking into the sofa, allowing the gentle flutters of his voice to move her, to encompass her and protect her from harm.

Somewhere, it was a normal Monday night. Exhausted middle-aged businessmen rushing to catch the train back from work. Mothers cooking dinner. Children sulking up to their rooms to do their homework. Car horns honking, water spilling, phones vibrating, keyboards clicking, couples arguing over who would take out the garbage, clocks mercilessly ticking…But there, there in a small apartment on the fourth floor of a high rise building, somewhere in the middle of it all, sat two humans on a sofa, just another ‘he’ and ‘she’, sheltered from it all by the music. Communicating through music. Saying things that could no language of the world would ever be capable of expressing…

The last words. He put down the guitar. The clock on the wall softly started ticking again. She took a hesitant breath. He opened his eyes, caught her gaze, and smiled expectantly. But what could she say? How could she explain that now, because of him, because of that song, something within her had shifted, had changed? That some wayward puzzle piece inside her had found its place again, and now, everything would be okay. That the ghost had evaporated, and that He, this man sitting across from her on this sofa, had saved her. Saved her with a single song.

She couldn’t. And yet, she smiled and whispered. “Thank you.”

His eyes caught hers. And suddenly she realized that, somehow, perhaps somewhere in his subconscious, he understood. He knew that something good, something meaningful and right, had just occurred between them. Somehow, the world had been made a little better.

* * *

Only we have the power to leave the things that haunt us in the past and to resuscitate ourselves, open ourselves up to the future again. There are as many things that can bring on that resuscitation as there are human beings on this earth. For some, all it takes is time. For some, it takes fame or money. Others return to life with the support of those people who care for them. Still others turn to lust, to food, to alcohol…

And then, for some, all it takes is a guitar.

02/10/2013

© 2013 olgaoka

Author's Note

Any and all comments are appreciated! Please just tell me what you think! :)

P.S. This story was inspired by another very special short story, "A Memorable Evening", written by someone very special to me. You can read that story here:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/nestar/1140052/