Bryan Richardson had wanted to quit his job and write short stories; perhaps he could write a novel, yet to finance such a bold step would require making money elsewhere with little hope of that on the horizon.
It wasn’t until he met his friend, Harry Hogg, himself a short story writer, who suggested he join Medium. There was the possibility of making money if people read his stories. Harry made it seem like a writer’s Holy Grail for someone who left school at 14. For in total regret, Bryan had little choice but to put every effort into supporting his mother after his father’s disappearance.
“That story you started, the one I read, Bryan, you should finish that and put it on the site. I think it will do well. You know, the one that started with you meeting a young woman in the park. Remember? She was a flute player, I believe.”
“You liked that one, Harry? I thought it was a little overwritten. It started as a true story, meeting in the park. But I never approached or found a way to engage her in conversation.”
“That’s why there’s a genre called fiction, Bryan. Look, I’m already half an hour late meeting Jenny. Get it done and put it on the site. It might be the one to earn you a lot of money.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie to you, Bryan?”
“Yes.”
“Just do it. Catch you later.”
Bryan went home that evening and joined Medium. Then, he wanted to complete the story Harry thought would do well.
By midnight, he had two thousand words down.
Her strawberry blonde hair glistened in the late spring sunshine, and her misty blue eyes read over the score, and she lit up the entire bandstand with her mystifying music. Her naked legs, so white, seemed to call me, partly obscured by her music stand, but every time she turned a sheet of music, I caught a glance of thigh under her dark blue skirt. And every time she threw back her shoulder-length hair, every cell of my aging body was made younger.
Her breasts were small, but so was she. The other women in the orchestra were missing that extra sparkle that separates the attractive from the dazzling, the nice from the mesmerizing.
It´s mostly in her glance. Her eyes suggest a paved road to a better life, a better existence, a gateway to freedom. Her sweet music, now Bach, with its simple progression, seemed to lead me there.
When Bryan closed his laptop, it was almost two in the morning. Her music seemed to lead him there. Where? Why had he written that sentence? He decided he would attend the Saturday afternoon performance in the park.
It would inspire him to write more.
The five girls, a quintet, were setting up on the bandstand. Fifteen minutes later, they began their performance. Bryan might be imagining it, but every thirty-year-old guy seemed more attentive to her as she started a flute solo, presumably in admiration and respect rather than a secret obsession.
Perhaps she loved being the center of attention; maybe she adored being immortalized in his descriptions. Can she never get enough attention? Or is she simply disguising her dominance with her looks?
The people gathered around in lawn chairs stood and applauded. I let out a quiet sigh. Can I do it, or not? Have I the courage? What should I say?
As the scattered spectators left — back to their suburban houses, families, secure jobs, and returned to their lives — I remained seated, still in awe, following my obsession´s every move.
Yes, I have the courage.
I approached her while she was seated on a park bench.
“Do you mind,” I asked, gesturing to sit beside her.
“Not at all,” she said.
Suddenly, from behind the bench, two hands rested on her shoulders. The flute girl looked around, “Oh, you’re here already,” and got up from the bench.
I turned, wanting to know to whom the hands belonged.
“Dad!” I said, my jaw dropped open.
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