Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

Chapter 7

"Perfect night, huh?" he asked and she nodded. "Got any requests?" He laughed, shaking his head, a sly grin forming on his lips. "Wait, let me guess, Celine Dion?"

She made a face. "No."

"Britney Spears?"

"Ew. Give me a little credit here, Jack."

She chewed on her bottom lip, fidgeting with the ends of her scarf again. "How about one you wrote?"

His grin faded as he pulled the strap of the guitar over his shoulders. His eyes were shuttered and distant again and she wondered what she'd said, how she'd screwed things up. "Um," he took a deep breath, "I think things are still a bit raw right now for one of those."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said softly and he shrugged.

"It's not your fault I've been wallowing in angst for a year and all my songs are about crying and pain and shit like that. Not exactly Jingle Bells, ya know?"

"I like angst," she said cheerfully.

"Yeah, you're very convincing." He leaned back against the wrought iron railing that led up to the brownstone's doorway. Squinting up at the streetlight, he looked deep in thought. "Hmm …" he said, running his hand through his hair. "Okay, I got it. Not one I wrote, but it's a classic."

He plucked at the strings, fiddling with the tuning pegs like he had to test them even though he'd just finished a set less than an hour ago. Eventually, the first notes started, the tune drifting out over the crowded city block. A young couple who was walking by looked over and the guy snickered and the girl smacked him on the arm, looking back over her shoulder as they continued on their way. The girl had a wistful look on her pretty face and Kathy realized just how it must look – her on the stoop with the cute guitarist who was preparing to serenade the city that never sleeps as she looked on longingly. It felt like something she'd written in her notebooks as a kid – his name scribbled in the margins, decorating the fantasies she jotted down on the lined pages.

She could see the change sweep over him, even just with those few opening chords, how the music settled him and centered him, made him whole. Sighing softly, she leaned forward, not caring how silly and dreamy she looked. He was lost in the music and wouldn't notice, that she was sure of. And the pull was too much, the need to be close to him so overwhelming that she felt it zing through her nerves like she'd touched an exposed wire by accident. This was like when they were kids, only different. When they were kids, she couldn't voice what the feelings meant, didn't know what you called it beyond a crush. Now she knew, and it made things all the more fragile and bittersweet.

He started to sing and her breath caught, just like it did back in the coffee shop. His voice was so raw and heartbreaking and she could listen to it for hours. The lyrics were familiar, the tune one that made her think of holidays and childhoods and loss and the kind of family she longed for. Choosing it told her so much about just where his mind was, where his heart was. It wasn't on the stoop with her, an audience of strangers strolling by. It was with his family back in Detroit, waiting for that cab to pull up tomorrow, bringing their baby brother home.

I'm sitting in the railway station

Got a ticket for my destination

On a tour of one-night stands, my suitcase and guitar in hand

And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band

Her vision grew cloudy and she wanted to blame the stray snowflakes that had landed on her glasses, but she knew it was tears. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, willing them to go away – wanting to cherish the moment, not dredge up self-pity and regret. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was her empty apartment with the twinkle lights she'd hung up in every window and draped along the ceiling, her cat curled up on the couch, and the free turkey defrosting in the refrigerator.