1.
He said he talked best with his eyes.
They were icy blue and brimming with melancholy pain masked by endless eyelashes. He didn’t care much for words, preferring to speak through guitar strings and gentle glares that could seep through your ribcage and settle your heart. At twenty-one he declared himself a realist and chain-smoked menthol cigarettes to pass time. He never cried but his icy eyes screamed sadness.
Then she stepped through his steady smoke and refused to be silent.
2.
“What are you drinking?”
Her voice carried through the air like the sound of a symbol and she spoke again before he could answer.
“You’re in a band, right?”
He nodded. She was fresh faced and full of dimpled smiles that never felt forced. He offered her a sip of his drink and she took two.
“I heard you play the drums. I’m not musically inclined or anything, but I’m pretty damn good on the pots and pans.”
He laughed for the first time in a week and she spoke faster.
“Don’t get me wrong; I love music, but lyrics are sort-of my thing. I’m a writer.”
Then she swallowed a mouthful of sweet liquor and held out a miniscule hand.
3.
He was a realist; she was a fan of make believe.
He liked to listen to her speak as he chain-smoked menthol cigarettes and hid her hand in his heavy palm. She didn’t know what a chord was, and the first time she held his guitar she tried to play it upside down. He didn’t care much for words, but he loved to hear her stories.
He said he talked best with his eyes; for the first time in twenty-one years they cried happiness.
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