Gloves Up | 2022 ✔️

Story #2 - Shine On

I pour my heart and soul into the mellow music. The sight of her limp figure on the hospital stretcher tugs at the fine string of guilt clutching my heart.

"I'd like to know what I we're all about, what we all have done." The C major seventh chord rings through the square room.

"Am I gonna get old and laugh, with someone? Think I'll get me a boy and a girl, or not either." My voice cracks. I look from her to the photo album, then to the yellow tulips, I brought.

"Will I get what I want from this world, I'm a daydreamer. Then I watched the old couple dance..." I drop my guitar, unable to finish the last of the chorus.

The final cords run through my mind, continuing to the outro of Stereophonics, Step On My Old Size Nines. The piece evokes the first memory we share.

"Around, around, around..." our lead singer concludes the outro, bowing.

My fingers glide along the frets; the music lingers in the air long after I finish the final notes.

The chatter of my bandmates fills the silence. No one applauds, partly because our audience abandoned us for the ducks in the pond. The sound of a microphone disconnecting snaps me out of my daze, allowing me to gauge the ongoing conversation about our non-existent listeners.

"There's that girl."

"She's not listening."

"...I'll fix that." I place my guitar in my case. We can't leave yet. It's too early to give up.

"You? Really? I think you have more luck becoming president." The rest agree with the keyboardist; they know I'm not a people person.

I fix my gaze on the girl about our age. My palms sweat. It's only six; we can't quit. With determined steps, I walk over to her.

"Excuse me, um...well..."

What was I thinking? I don't have a plan.

"You're an excellent guitarist." She smiles, showing off dimples.

She was listening!

"Um...thank you?" I can feel a blush creep onto my cheeks. I open my mouth to say something but can't find words, as usual.

"Would you like to dance?"

"Me?!" I almost shout.

Dance? To what? The band is leaving as we speak, literally. Wait—they're staring.

"Yes, you."

In an attempt to eliminate my embarrassment I ask about her school, discovering she's not from here. Unusually, I find it easy to talk with her. Through quiet conversation, I learn she's from a neighboring town, sixteen, and is emancipated by the state.

The band begins playing again- our bassist taking my position.

She grabs my hand.

I freeze. "Um...what's your name?"

"Violet. You?"

"Ace."

"Well, Ace. Let's dance."

"How was that Vi? Remember...?" She doesn't respond, not that I think she will. The doctor said she can still hear me even if she doesn't answer my call. "-I've even got pictures."

My fingers fumble through the photo album full of ten years worth of memories.

The first pictures depict the wooded park I used to play at with my friends. The same guitar rests in my hands. She stands beside me, holding out her hand for me to take. A smile I haven't seen in seven months is plastered on her radiant face, full of life.