Sunday, June 23, 2013

No Buttons On My Shoes

She was great about lyrics.

Maybe too great.  A stickler.  Plus, to make things worse, she was well-read.  And always reading something new.  Or doing research.

"Hey, did you know the zipper was invented the same year that Grand Central Terminal was opened?  1913?  That makes them even older than you!"
"Thanks,"
"No, you know that line in that song?  About the buttons on the . . ."

It was the one where she'd wiggle her pretty little foot. He knew the exact line, but feigned ignorance.

This conversation was getting to him.  She was picking at it, every detail of the lyric.  It doesn't matter, just shut up and sing!  It reminded him of fans who wanted to know every fact about him.  And how she was once one of them.  She was still coming out with random facts about his life, including stuff he never even knew.  Or things he just couldn't remember anymore.  Another line from the song:"I don't know enough about you", except she did.  She knew plenty.  More than he liked.  But she sang it so seductively.

She sang it like as if there were more to know about him. And as if she was still eager to discover it, to seduce it all out of him.  It was nice to be considered such an object of interest.  As a person (not as a figurehead).

Because he was certain that he wasn't that deep.  Except in her eyes, she could make him do things that surprised him. (SCENE) Made him laugh. He liked that man she seemed to be in love with.  Or who SHE thought he was.  Like with the audiences, he was always afraid of not living up to expectations.

And lately, it was getting harder. His medication wasn't working.  He was getting more cranky.  He saw a breakdown coming. If only he could tell her that the alcohol was his last hope, that a little could calm him down.  Too much wasn't good, but she shouldn't get in between him and his drink.

And THAT was the one thing she didn't want to know about him.  Pesky kid poking around a haunted house.  The biggest danger is that you'll find something.  Or collapse through the floorboards.  Get killed not by the ghost, but by the reality.  (Poor kid.)


"I Don't Know Enough About You" sung by Jessica Molasky

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