“So she just left without a word?”
“Bags and all.”
“But — but I mean, what happened?”
“I think she loved rock and roll more than she ever loved me.”
“That doesn’t make sense …”
“Don’t look at me, those were her words. I can’t make that up.”
“She told you that?” he asks, seemingly perplexed by this new information.
The last time I had seen him this confused was when I told him that Ringo was my favourite Beatle.
“Straight to my face, not even thinking twice.”
“And that’s why you don’t like Zeppelin?”
“Amongst others,” I try to explain,“she just had a really great taste in music.”
He shakes his head in disappointment.
“Here, have a drink,” he says, pouring me a glass of bourbon, “and tell me how it happened.”
The evening sun threw gentle light into our little holiday apartment. She was out in the balcony with her radio set while I read an old magazine I had picked up from the reception desk.
As the music picked up, she raised her hands slowly over her head and began to move with the rhythm. Then turning to me, she said, “do you know I’d leave you for rock and roll?”
The music played on and her dancing continued. She meant every word, there was no question. I knew that then as surely as I know it now but I laughed it off.
I didn’t know how to respond.
“Now, hold up,” he says, “when she said she’d leave you for rock and roll — ”
“Yes?”
“ — she didn’t mean it literally of course?”
“No of course not. She probably meant it as a metaphor of sorts.”
“How’s that?”
“Hard to say,” I say, with a shrug, “maybe she meant to say that she’d leave me for someone cooler.”
“It’s like saying you were only a station on her way or something.”
“Haha, yes,” I say, “isn’t there a song about that?”
“Isn’t there always?”
We had been together for better part of a year.
I want to say that we had a big argument or that she caught me cheating. Anything at all to close the gaping hole she had left behind.
Maybe she had fallen in love, or maybe she had simply fallen out of love. Whatever it was, I never really found out. If there were any signs, I surely didn’t see them.
Over dinner, we talked about going to California for the summer, and then I woke up in the middle of the night to find her side of the bed unslept and a note on the nightstand.
I listened to the same songs on repeat for days, till they lost all meaning. At first, I was furious, then depressed and after that too had passed, only a certain feeling of emptiness remained that, I knew, I’d always have to carry.
She had taken away a part of me that used to feel a certain way and yet somehow, everything has only felt heavier ever since.
Gaze fixed on his glass, he’s lost deep in thought. This may be the first time I’ve seen him keep this still.
“More bourbon?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, still dazed.
“You have the bottle.”
This snaps him out of it.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, reaching to pour.
“It’s not like you to hesitate.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just — ” his hand stops midway.
“It’s okay, go ahead.”
I know what he’s going to say; this isn’t my first time telling this story.
“You never said what was in the note.”
I want to tell better stories and tell stories better. You can help make it happen.
Feel free to share your opinions on this piece in the comments or as a private note, I’d love to hear from you.
