She sat alone on the staircase, the keys click-clacking, her foot tip-tapping to an unheard beat. Though it was late summer, and a hot one at that, she wore a long, thick knitted cardigan, it's sleeves bunched up to free her hands for typing. Impatiently shoving too-long bangs back from a pretty face, she studied the screen intensely. Director's cut: romance in Paris. Balcony scenes, roses and speeches. She paused, looked up, gazing at the ancient piano in front of her. The evening's sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the dark wood, alighting the stained gold detail with a faerie glow. Tell her you love her, wine on the terrace. With emotion now! Sunsets and beaches. If she closed her eyes she could almost make out the strains of a song that eluded her grasp. Duh, duh, dum...a short burst of laughter from behind startled her from the music. Frustrated, she slammed a hand down on the keys, taking pleasure in the jumbled mess that followed neat rows of poetry. She shifted position, leaning back against the railing, laptop balancing precariously on splayed out legs. This story's been scripted and you know your lines. Same old beginning, time after time. Gotta follow the plot, gotta face the truth. Somehow still wishing for a different ending with you. The words sprang from buried emotion, long hidden but yet to be forgotten. Unbidden, the boy's face rose in her mind, chasing all other thoughts from her head. Tan, freckled skin, eyes as deep and blue and pure as rain... Director's cut: confessions in London. Rain on the sidewalk, nowhere to run. The words flowed easily now, directed by a year of memories. She leaned forward, intent on her work, oblivious to the bustle of the world around her. Big Ben, Buckingham, guards in fur hats and - cue the symphony now - march along to thunder drums. The chorus again, then a comma added, a word changed. She frowned at the neat red squiggles framing every third word and impatiently clicked them into submission. She thought back, sorting through memories of the last year. She remembered her theatre teacher, explaining every part of a performance. Triple threat act. She remembered the boy, of his sweet words - sweet nothings, really. No more looking back. She remembered a different set of hands on a different set of keys, these ones gleaming black and white, of hands holding bow and instrument, crooning out a melody that hurt to remember, notes overlapping wildly to escape the cupboard they had been locked in for months. Cacophony of symphony. Curtain call, cue applause. She remembered. Director's cut: heartbreak in Rome. Easier to be empty, so far from home. Easier for us, when we are alone. Dim the lights now. C'mon baby, take us home.
She sat back and read the verses, again, then again. Tugging the sleeves down to cover her hands, she pulled her cardigan closely around her. The light bathing the room was now red, the sun nearly disappeared under the mountains. It was quiet everywhere now; around her, and in her head. Inhaling deeply, tasting the new carpet on the stairs and the eggs cooking around the corner, she read the song one last time before opening her email. She copied it into the message box, then typed in a familiar address - the guitarist of the band she wrote for had been asking for another song for ages. She hesitated, her fingers already poised over the keys - quickly, she entered an even more familiar address. The boy's name alone had the power to pierce her heart, to cut her deeper than any knife could. Before she had time to think it over she had clicked send. The band's reply came quickly. "Sweet!" she read, scanning over the words, reluctant to admit to herself they weren't from who she wanted. "That's so real - real emotion. Good stuff. Thanks!" The boy's reply came slower - slower, and slower still. The waiting seemed to stop time, but still, the time never came when his name flashed on her screen again. She waited, years it seemed, for the words she was afraid to read yet yearned to hear. Words that never came.
This story's been scripted and you read your lines. Same old beginning, time after time. Should've followed the plot, should've faced the truth. I knew better than to wish for a different ending with you.
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