The man next door
On a dark and gloomy night, she sat at her window and began to ponder. She thought about her life, her struggles and her dreams. A familiar tune started playing in the background. It was a melancholy melody, one that she had heard many times before. The neighbour was known for playing these saddened notes with his old rundown guitar. She had always expressed apathy towards his musical abilities. However, this time was different. Maybe it was the music, or it may have had something to do with her own sorrows, but this music seemed to soothe her. It was almost as if her dread and agony drifted further from her mind as the music began to surround her. As her curiosity peaked, she slid her window open and peeked her head out to see if the man was in his usual spot on his roof. To her surprise, he was nowhere in sight. She searched to see if there were any lights on in his house, there were not. She noticed that his 1980 Harley Davidson was not parked in its usual spot. Astonished and confused, she lifted her head back inside, and gently closed the window and curtains. Where was the music coming from? she questioned. She heard the same chords being played every night for months, so she wondered if tonight because he was not home, she was simply playing the melody in her head. It is what soothed her to sleep, calmed her when she read, and comforted her when she cried. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that maybe it was not apathy, what she felt, maybe it was something more. Of course, there were times when she was working when the man played his song, and she found her self feeling frustrated with the music. But she was able to tune most of the noise out in those situations. She did, however, noticed a pattern, that when she needed the song the most, it was there for her. The more she allowed the composition to repeat, the more it soothed her. She knew every strum and every chord to heart. She settled her head into her pillow and repeated the tune over and over again. Upon closing her eyes for a minute or two, a low and loud rumbling noise caught her attention. She jumped up onto her knees, slid her curtains back gently, so no one would notice her peering out the window. She saw him climb off his bike, yank his helmet to the left, and watched as his it flung off his head and as his long hair settled back into place. She watched as he took his keys and headed for the door. Once she heard him close the door behind him, she sat back on her bed and waited. She hoped that the man would play the song soon enough. After a few minutes, the infamous tune that had filled her head minutes earlier played once again. She slid her window open, just enough to fit her head and peeked out. She saw the man swaying to the beat of his strums. She quietly opened her window further and climbed up on her bed and out onto the roof. She sat just outside the windowsill and began to watch the man as his hand caressed the strings of his guitar. She closed her eyes, just for a second or too, and when she reopened them, she caught his piercing gaze. She then realized that all this time, it was not apathy that she felt, it was love. She was in love with the man next door and his sad song.