So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And music shall untune the sky!
- John Dryden, “A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day”
——-
The woman with the purple hair moved her arms feverishly back and forth in front of her face, and I thought she was beautiful. If she squeezed my heart not saying anything, I didn’t want to think about what her voice could do.
It would be music.
I scratched my head with my right hand, trying to figure her out. I felt she knew me and my tricks and my shame. I laughed, knowing I was just a young widower trying to reassemble the jagged remnants of life.
She continued to move her arms, passion on top of passion, her eyes intense with fire, and I took one step toward her.
I made eye contact. Her arms still moved, but she started to walk toward me. She was approaching on the gravel street. We were outside and it smelled cold and mature, like old leaves.
We were a foot apart and my mouth was dry. I moved my tongue around, begging for moisture, but I couldn’t talk.
She didn’t talk either.
We stood there, like two Pinocchios just wanting to be real.
Then her arms moved again, only this time it was much slower, almost thoughtful. Then I realized. All of my talk wouldn’t matter, because it would never reach her.
I raised my right hand, extended my pointer, pinky, and thumb, and lowered my middle two fingers.
I love you.
I’m an idiot.
I’m done.
I turned around on the road and walked away from her, turning left into a small path behind Joe’s barn.
Who was this girl, just motioning at me? I didn’t even know her, and who was I to say “I love you”? She had turned my life upside down enough for one day. I would just go home and eat Oreos and read Poe and wallow.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around. Her face looked confused. She cocked her head to one side, like a dog, but a pretty one.
She turned, beckoning me with a swing of her right hand, her purple hair electric in the dusk.
I followed, a hapless victim of curiosity.
We walked for about a mile. We didn’t talk. That was okay. My stomach was knotting itself up in confused balls of uncertainty that made me want to throw up and smile at the same time. This was something. We didn’t need words for affirmation.
We continued walking, and I noticed that her steps were light. She didn’t walk like everyone else. She didn’t float, and she didn’t glide. It was just light, like nothing I’d ever seen before. Everything about her was soft and gentle and genuinely her, though she was obviously broken.
Here I was, a lanky guy from the backwoods bumbling behind her, begging to be brought into her realm. My left toe caught and I stumbled a bit, but she didn’t turn around. I guess we were both broken.
We walked, two wind-up toys running out of artificial life.
She finally turned left, a burst of wind blowing her yellow blouse away from her body for a second. She had turned onto a cement driveway. Ahead in the distance stood a proud Tudor house. The sunset was leaking around the sides of the house, but the bright red of the bricks still hurt my eyes.
She spun around and looked me in the eyes. I stopped walking. She smiled, and I wanted to cry. I didn’t even remember to smile back. She beckoned with her hand, just like she did the first time, and we started to walk together.
The leaves were crispy and falling and I stepped on one. I stepped on two, three, four. They layered the driveway. She didn’t step on any.
We were in front of the house now. Instead of going through the front door, she climbed over the short white fence on the side and I followed. We went around to the backside of the house and entered through a dilapidated back door with a broken lock.
She and I went up two flights of stairs. The first was an auxiliary staircase made out of wooden planks, but the second was carpeted and even. I could feel its cushion through the soles of my shoes. She knew her way around. It was comforting, and familiar.
She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I followed, although I wasn’t sure what we were doing. She took a half-gallon of milk from the refrigerator and looked at me quizzically, her head cocked. She moved her arms and hands for the first time since she had asked me to walk with her. I tried to show her that I didn’t understand.
“My name’s Johnny.”
She laughed.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” I said.
She took my hand and placed it on the half-gallon and then pointed to my chest with one finger.
“Oh, no. I don’t want any. Thanks.” I shook my head “no,” and she understood.
She poured a glass for herself. She drank it, leaning against the counter underneath the microwave.
She placed her empty glass that still held the faint white hue of milk in the sink and walked out of the kitchen. I followed quickly, trying to keep up with her.
Her hand reached behind to grab mine. I reached forward and she held it. We started running, exquisite furniture and civilization blurry around us. She stopped suddenly and I ran into her back. She turned around. I laughed and took a step back. Our hands were still joined.
Her excited, erratic breaths told me we had reached our destination. Walls lined with books. Two black leather armchairs. The ceiling was dark, but the good kind of dark, the cozy kind. She flipped on the light switch, and I saw a record player. It was dusty and exhausted but she walked toward it with volition. She grabbed the top record from a pile on the floor. Its cover was grey with a yellow square filling the front.
After placing the record on the player and putting the needle down, she handed the cover to me. I held it in my hands, and just as I discovered that it was the London Symphony Orchestra playing Beethoven’s Fifth, the music started to swell. The opening notes brought chills to my heart and I had to sit down.
But she didn’t sit down in the chair adjacent. Instead, she smiled at me for an instant, and then began to twirl around as the music swirled, her purple hair spreading out from her head. She could fly. Tears escaped from her closed eyelids.
She was lifted by something beyond bars and measures. She flew over sound and light and time, and for a second, I was flying, too.
