Learn to Fly

Dust In The Wind

My alarm rang out and I extracted one hand from my covers and slapped the snooze button. After repeating this ritual three more times, my sleepy brain realized I was going to be late for work and I sat up, yawning heavily. Getting dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved Foo Fighters shirt, I gulped down a mug of coffee and left my apartment to catch the tube to work.

After the twenty minutes it took to get to my stop, I rushed out of the train and started walking towards the fish and chips restaurant where I slaved eight hours a day, five days a week. To be honest, it wasn't that bad. The place was actually quite nice and homey, but I had no attachment to it whatsoever. I went there, waited on people, got my money, and left.

I pushed open the glass door, and walked straight into the kitchen, going over to the aprons hanging on a hook. I pulled one over my head and tied it, ready to tackle the morning rush. There were two other waiters, but the time passed in such a flash, that I didn't see either of them before the crowd cleared up.

I went back into the kitchen, and plopped down on a chair, exhausted. Terry, the head waitress, was talking to some guy with chin-length blond hair, which instantly made me think of Kurt Cobain. He looked at me for a split-second, and I caught sight of a thin, slightly pointed nose, and a cocky smile. The Cobain resemblance didn't end with the hair, apparently.

"Joan?" Terry called.

"Yeah?" I replied, fiddling with a loose thread on my apron.

"Jose is our new waiter. Show him around a bit before rush hour, will you?"

"Okay." Like I could refuse.

Getting up, I went over to Jose and motioned for him to follow me.

"This is where we place orders," I told him, motioning to a small bulletin board. "We wear these aprons and take orders outside. Oh, and there's free refills before the lunch rush, okay?"

Jose nodded, putting on his apron. "So how long have you been working here?"

"Two years."

"You're Joan, right?"

"Yeah."

"Joan what?" He questioned.

"Jett," I replied sarcastically, pretty sure he wouldn't get it.

"Sure you are." Apparently he got it.

I noticed his eyes for the first time. They were a pale gray with blue around the edges, and they had the look of someone very tired, someone sad. He stared right back at me, the blank expression on his face matching mine.

Suddenly Terry came in and clapped her hands. "Alright, you lot, get back to work."

I picked up my notepad and went back to taking orders. In between, I caught sight of Drake, another waiter.

"Hey, Joan," he called, "wanna go out tomorrow to catch a movie or something?"

"No, I'm busy," I called back. Drake was in his late twenties and seriously creeped me out. I did have to go to this annual Rock and Roll Festival, though.

I literally counted the seconds left till I could leave. When finally, finally the last customer left, I ripped off my apron, grabbed my things and made a dash for the door. I didn't immediately get a train but walked a few blocks to a small music store, where I spent nearly an hour browsing. Finally paying for the lot, I left the store.

It was just getting dark. Taking on a brisk walk, I reached the tube station and caught a train back to my apartment. I lived in the grubby part of London, the part which wasn't meant for tourists. My apartment was surprisingly cheap for its size. That was probably because of the full-length glass window in the back room, which was a major security breach in an area like this. Nevertheless, I loved the fact that it had the view of the whole city, being on the fifth floor. Sometimes when I sat there in the dark with my guitar, I forgot that I was dirt poor, working as a waitress.

Not bothering to switch the lights on, I carried the small stack of vinyls I'd bought to the room, which was empty, except for a small shelf filled with records, and a player resting in the corner. In the other corner was a dust-covered, beat-up old acoustic. My gaze swept over it, and a voice in the back of my head wondered why I didn't just throw it away. But the rest of my mind ignored the instrument, and I walked over to window, dropping down beside it and grabbing the guitar leaning against the glass. This one was a bit newer than the other one, though looked just as beat-up.

My fingers automatically found their place on the strings and started playing a random melody. Slowly the sound turned into a recognized song. I started singing, my voice drowned out by the reverberating chords.

"I close my eyes

Only for a moment and the moment's gone

All my dreams

Pass before my eyes with curiosity

Dust in the wind

All they are is dust in the wind

Same old song

Just a drop of water in an endless sea

All we do

Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind

Oh, ho, ho

Now don't hang on

Nothin' last forever but the earth and sky

It slips away

And all your money won't another minute buy

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind

Dust in the wind

Everything is dust in the wind." I finished off, the chords fading away. Taking a deep breath, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and watched the city slowly fall asleep.