Sand.
So much sand, and then...
Water. Water.
This was where we met.
His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets, as infinitely reaching as the black and blue and orange and yellow sunrise, and as deep as night.
I could feel the words floating through the shadow, supported by a quiet guitar. Meek. His lips sang poetry, moist, dreaming poetry. And I saw him.
Hair lapped at his cheekbones, curled outward-bound. His eyes glowed with a silk maroon. He wore a softly striped shirt of white, lime, pink, and a pair of torn cargos. His feet were bare, rough. A worn acoustic guitar nested in his lap.
And he saw me.
He stopped playing.
I breathed deeply, quietly.
“Hey.”
Colloquial. Cool. And common.
“Hey,” he whispered back.
A chill breeze rustled through the air. Water rising, subsiding.
I stepped closer. “What was that you were playing?” Pause.
“Music.”
I smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Call me maestro,” he said as I sat down, an imperceptible grin passing over his face. He started to play a song. His fingers glided gently over the guitar.
“Maestro?”
“It’s a nickname.”
The song raised barely above a hush. He didn’t sing. I looked out into the horizon, where I could see a seagull flying far, to the water.
“And yours?”
“Hmm?” I asked.
“What’s your name?”
I told him.
A smile in his air, he whispered, “Nice to meet you.” I imagined him reaching to give me a handshake, but he continued to play. I held my legs up to my chest. It was too cold.
A note rang sour. I turned to look at him as he tossed his guitar aside.
There was too long a silence.
“Have we met before?” he wondered to me aloud.
“No, why?”
“In some other life or place?”
I kept quiet.
“You just seem so familiar to me.”
I looked at the sand, drew a face with my toes. I kicked it away.
“Where do you live?”
“Canada.”
He didn’t ask anything more. Instead, he grabbed his guitar from the sand and began to pluck notes dryly. I drew another face.
“What about you?”
He didn’t answer.
I waited patiently.
He began to sing:
No man’s land,
Now, today, tomorrow, never
Again, I see
The way we are together
Never, now and always
Why me?
I cannot see a reason why
I love you so
Just leave me be
For now, I want
To go...
Another sour note. He stopped, bit his lip fiercely and looked away.
“That was great,” I said, airy, sweet.
He looked back at me. His eyes grew moister, shifted to look down. He glided his hand on mine. It felt gritty from mistreatment.
“I never wanted to believe in love.” He whispered, looked me in the eye. “I hate it. I hate people.”
I said nothing. I only glanced at him, his hand.
“But I...”
He sighed.
“...I never know how to say it.”
He said nothing. He didn’t have to.
We sat in silence. His hand warmed mine a bit.
I can’t remember how long we stayed like that. Minutes. Hours.
Over time, we began to lean into each other. His shoulder was strong, padded. His head laid gently on mine. I could hear his shallow breaths, his heart beating a slow and steady rhythm. And I could feel his hand: still, confident.
“What was their name?” I whispered as if some unknown stranger could listen in.
“Alex.”
He sighed.
“I love...loved...so much...”
“And then?”
“Life’s a bitch.”
His speaking shook his shoulder. I leaned back upright; his hand stayed rested firmly in mine.
“I know the feeling.”
“Who?” he asked.
“A friend.”
“And then?”
“I only wish.”
“We’re of the same.”
“What?”
“We’re like twins,” he restated.
“Twins.”
“I always wanted a twin.”
He pulled me closer. Closer. His arm wrapped snugly around my chest. His hand graced against my leg.
“Me too.”
“You too?”
“Always.”
We looked out to the sea. Off in the distance the slightest glow began to hover, so imminent as if to almost scream.
“The sun is coming,” I said to him, excited and breathless.
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Away.” He stood erect, taking his guitar.
“Why?” I asked, pleaded.
“To get away. To escape.” He began to walk away, to the trees nearby.
“But I want to escape with you.”
He stopped. Clenched his fist.
“You can’t. I can’t let you.”
“But why?”
He had already left. He bolted for the trees.
I called out for him.
There was no answer.
I sat alone.
Waiting.
...
It was a week from then.
I opened the local newspaper. A death notice.
And there was his picture.
His hair still curled, his eyes still glazed with deep caramel silk.
The message left in his memory was small. Unnoticeable. There was no funeral.
But the fashion in which he died was well advertised:
An overdose on anti-depressants. A notorious drug user.
Of course.
Maestro.
My Maestro.
My forgotten Maestro.
My forgotten, lost Maestro.
Funny how fast an opinion of someone can change.
A forgotten, lost, unloved drug maestro.