They were driving home one rainy night after a gig. Playing together about a year. Long enough for it to feel long enough.
She was driving, and unusual for her, not singing. But she was tuckered out, from singing and driving all the way there, doing a full set with intermission and now driving home.
She was just really tired and worn thin. He was about to fall asleep when he noticed tears rolling down her cheeks. He couldn't tell if it was a trick of the light; the raindrops, the wipers, the water of the evening. He asked her, gently and she pulled into a parking lot, 47 minutes away from their destination. The silent GPS recalculated under its breath.
"The song that came on, I always think of a friend of mine."
"What song was it?"
"You know when you try to talk someone out of suicide, but nothing you say matters?"
"Oh. That. Um, yeah, I know it all too well."
They didn't say much to each other. She didn't try to tell him about the year or two she devoted to a friend who had depression, or her best friend from childhood.
He didn't tell her about all the friends he had who he watched drink themselves into a stupor. Or the times he cursed himself for not being more vigilant over his friends as they drunkenly measured out pills, intentionally or not.
She looked into his eyes and saw pain, even maybe a sense that he had been there himself. He saw a girl he couldn't comfort. Yet another failure, but a poetic one. At least this was something that nobody could fix. He should go home tonight and write a song about it himself. How Supermen can't bring back the dead. How Spiderman can't unweave ties that bind people together. And how that would be reassuring if you want to apply to be a superhero; you'd have your limited skillset. And not be expected to undo an earthquake. How relieved Clark Kent must be on a day to day basis. Were there days when Kent would put down the paper and just go to sleep? He can't stop wars, he can't stop every instance of cruelty.
He can't swoop into your apartment and tell you what to do when your wife of 13 years leaves you because you were being stupid. Freud needs a cape, he thought. He traced his fingernail along the upholstery of the car door. Or maybe that's the metaphorical power of books, to reach you wherever you are. You just have to be willing to reach out and pull a book off the shelf; to let the idea reach out to you.
The engine started and startled him. She seemed composed. A brief moment, she was hungry, sleepy, wet and cold. Home, at least, the home of a hotel, seemed like a preferable place to the car. He wanted to ask her, but now the moment was gone. She would have shared if she had wanted; at least, in his experience with girls, that was usually the case. He wanted to tell her his stuff too, but she was in "back in business" mode. Damn, times like this he wished he could offer her a drink.
He would offer her a shoulder when they got back to the hotel. She hesitated, wondering what percentage of the invitation involved sex.
She cried herself to sleep that night. Alone.
*"See What You Lost When You Left This World" - Lucinda Williams
She was driving, and unusual for her, not singing. But she was tuckered out, from singing and driving all the way there, doing a full set with intermission and now driving home.
She was just really tired and worn thin. He was about to fall asleep when he noticed tears rolling down her cheeks. He couldn't tell if it was a trick of the light; the raindrops, the wipers, the water of the evening. He asked her, gently and she pulled into a parking lot, 47 minutes away from their destination. The silent GPS recalculated under its breath.
"The song that came on, I always think of a friend of mine."
"What song was it?"
"You know when you try to talk someone out of suicide, but nothing you say matters?"
"Oh. That. Um, yeah, I know it all too well."
They didn't say much to each other. She didn't try to tell him about the year or two she devoted to a friend who had depression, or her best friend from childhood.
He didn't tell her about all the friends he had who he watched drink themselves into a stupor. Or the times he cursed himself for not being more vigilant over his friends as they drunkenly measured out pills, intentionally or not.
She looked into his eyes and saw pain, even maybe a sense that he had been there himself. He saw a girl he couldn't comfort. Yet another failure, but a poetic one. At least this was something that nobody could fix. He should go home tonight and write a song about it himself. How Supermen can't bring back the dead. How Spiderman can't unweave ties that bind people together. And how that would be reassuring if you want to apply to be a superhero; you'd have your limited skillset. And not be expected to undo an earthquake. How relieved Clark Kent must be on a day to day basis. Were there days when Kent would put down the paper and just go to sleep? He can't stop wars, he can't stop every instance of cruelty.
He can't swoop into your apartment and tell you what to do when your wife of 13 years leaves you because you were being stupid. Freud needs a cape, he thought. He traced his fingernail along the upholstery of the car door. Or maybe that's the metaphorical power of books, to reach you wherever you are. You just have to be willing to reach out and pull a book off the shelf; to let the idea reach out to you.
The engine started and startled him. She seemed composed. A brief moment, she was hungry, sleepy, wet and cold. Home, at least, the home of a hotel, seemed like a preferable place to the car. He wanted to ask her, but now the moment was gone. She would have shared if she had wanted; at least, in his experience with girls, that was usually the case. He wanted to tell her his stuff too, but she was in "back in business" mode. Damn, times like this he wished he could offer her a drink.
He would offer her a shoulder when they got back to the hotel. She hesitated, wondering what percentage of the invitation involved sex.
She cried herself to sleep that night. Alone.
*"See What You Lost When You Left This World" - Lucinda Williams
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