These are the songs that Evetta plays in this chapter:
Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet - Montagues and Capulets
Concerto in B Minor op. 35 - Oskar Rieding
***
I didn't twist my foot this time; secretly, I'm very proud of that fact.
It's been a few weeks since we went to Trafalgar Square, and Evetta and I spend almost every afternoon together. Usually, she'll come by my house afterwork and just stay with me. Sometimes, she'll spend the night; other times, I'll spend the night at her house.
One thing keeps bothering me, though; I haven't gone back to work. I'm almost afraid to go back, to face it again. I'm afraid of the looks of pity, or disgust, or derision; I'm afraid of the treatment that I'll receive there. What will my secretary think? The groundskeeper? My colleagues? I have no idea what to expect from them, and it scares me more than it should.
More than anything, I feel like a coward; here I have a girlfriend who is as close to perfection as they come, going to work every day to earn a living, and I won't go to work because I'm afraid that the big kids will pick on me.
I'm such a pussy.
I want to be more than that for Evetta. She deserves more than a wuss who can't go back to work and face possible hostility because he misplaced hisfigurative balls somewhere along the line during his fourteen month coma; she deserves a man with a spine, and for her, I'm determined to grow one.
***
I'm at Evetta's house today, and I prefer being here with her; she lives here alone, and it's nice to know that there are no intruders.
Sitting up in her bed, I hear a sound coming from downstairs.
It sounds as if she's... playing the violin. The song sounds familiar; I swear I've heard it somewhere before.
Curiously, I clamber down the stairs to watch her; shes wearing a long, baggy t-shirt, and she's playing in the lounge, her hair wet from being washed, the turquoise ends looking deep aquamarine.
Everything about her is pulling me in; the sound of the violin, her natural scent, the smell of her deodorant, cocoa butter, her body wash and her hair.
Just many different smells combining to form one beautiful, harmonious perfume.
I don't think I'll ever stop saying this; I'm whipped.
On the topic of her hair...
She seems to be very proud of her hair. Thinking back, I can't think of a time at which she wore a wig, or weave, or straightened her hair in any way. The most she ever did in terms of changing the texture, was styling her hair in a fashion she called "chiney bumps", then wearing her hair curly the next day.
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Amnesia (Completed, Being Edited)
RomanceAs if on cue, my room door bursts open, and in comes a girl. She's short, round in the face and has caramel skin; the ends of her natural, curly afro hair are died turquoise, and brown eyes lined with navy blue liner stare at me with curiosity, reli...
