i submitted this one waiting for prof. cross to ask me to post this--but... alas, the request never came. but it's okay, i'll share it with y'all anyway. :)
the clacking of the keys fills the space of my almost noiseless room. itunes hums easily along, singing a wondrously happy song about some boy whose opinion shouldn’t matter because who died and made him king of anything, seriously? but once my fingers slow, the media player decides to start a certain song—with you. the song opens with gentle strums on a guitar, and a giggle rings in my ears.
“really, these are how the lyrics go?”
i look up, see the owner of the voice, and then look back at the wooden windowsill I’m sitting on.
“well, yeah. I mean it’s not like we can sing them though because we definitely aren’t black enough.”
he laughs again, throwing his head back. the sun bounces off of his short, somewhat chaotically organized hair. he looks at me through his glasses again.
“d’ya wanna try singing it?”
i nod slowly, anxious about singing in front of him for the first time. i’m sure that he’ll find something wrong with my voice to complain about—not on-pitch, not good enough, something—
he smiles, eyes closing as he leans back into the wall, listening to the comforting guitar and my voice echoing through the vaulted hallways. his hand taps his thigh in rhythm to the melody. i can’t help but grin—I’d kill to see that smile every day. as i hit the bridge, the lyrics carry me up to ceiling and back down again. and once I’m finished, he’s facing me.
“that was awesome!” he says. he’s still smiling at me. not a smirk. not a smug look. a true, genuine smile. “you should sing more often.”
i can feel my face flush pretty much seven different shades of red before i stammer out a “th-thanks.”
the song continues to bounce around in my ears as we start talking about something—exactly what though, i can’t seem to decide. his voice sounds almost garbled now (like a golden retriever’s) and i can’t even understand what I’m saying. the music swells and i blink my eyes. i’m facing a very, very blank sheet of white computer screen and a russian woman is singing about the disadvantages of being a sailor and how mary-ann is a bitch. as i begin to ponder what’s just happened, i realize that i’m no closer to being done with my paper, and morning is scheduled to arrive in an hour.
