You Don't Know How Many Times
"I think that's a bedbug,"
"Where?" He was absentmindedly scratching his cheek.
"I mean a bite, you were bitten by a bedbug!"
"No I wasn't." It was a reflex now, to disagree with whatever she said.
"I can see it oozing."
"I'll get a bandaid. You screwed up the song again last night."
"I told you I can't always hit that note. Either I drop my voice out & cheat it, or you play louder."
"No, we'll practice again today at sound check."
"Sometimes I get it & sometimes I don't. Practice hasn't been helping."
"You just need to try harder."
"I'm trying as hard as I can. Stop picking at it!!"
He knew his face couldn't afford any more injuries, but he couldn't stop playing with scabs or bites. Never could stop, not even as a kid. Nervous habit. He still had an infection on his hip that wouldn't heal where the guitar rubbed against him. Everything hurt, but as long as nobody saw it, he'd do whatever he wanted.
Right now, he wanted to stop the car and kick her out. The show last night was awful and he was pretty sure he'd have to fire the band permanently.
She turned the radio on, effectively silencing their conversation. A blues riff was playing and she let the dial rest there until the static got too bad.
He yelled when she changed it. His obsession with Blues was bigger than her tolerance for static.
"Stop at the next rest area. I'm hungry". Or "I have to go to the bathroom."
They were both cranky to the point they were ready to kill each other. But they didn't. Survival mode, tolerating each other moment to moment. But still, each was keeping track of the other's failures. Keeping score of all the items they overlooked.
She could never identify the smell in his car, but she thought of it as death. Stagnant food odors. Rotting newspapers. Him after he hadn't bathed for a week. Being in his car was like rattling around inside his brain sometimes. Or his stomach. Blues books lay dusty and undigested. CDs fallen out of their cases, things which were once useful or full of promise, collected and drying out in the heat of the car, baking in the sun.
She felt sick.
Last time she went to his house, he didn't want to get out of bed. She'd jump into her rental car and drive. Wondered why she was attracted to people who turned stagnant. Easier to drop them, she thought to herself. Even when she was madly in love, she wanted an escape clause. And she got them.
But when they pulled over, it was them against the world. Asking a waitress to hold the bread. Charming the waiters to make sure they didn't spit in their food. Battling the audience. They rehearsed the song and he played louder during the actual show. She threw him a few extra straight lines and he got the audience to laugh. She had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him a few times.
That night, he had trouble saying goodnight to her at the motel room door. But they had gotten a deal on the 2 for one rooms, and she was determined to get their money's worth.
Cherish-The Association
"I think that's a bedbug,"
"Where?" He was absentmindedly scratching his cheek.
"I mean a bite, you were bitten by a bedbug!"
"No I wasn't." It was a reflex now, to disagree with whatever she said.
"I can see it oozing."
"I'll get a bandaid. You screwed up the song again last night."
"I told you I can't always hit that note. Either I drop my voice out & cheat it, or you play louder."
"No, we'll practice again today at sound check."
"Sometimes I get it & sometimes I don't. Practice hasn't been helping."
"You just need to try harder."
"I'm trying as hard as I can. Stop picking at it!!"
He knew his face couldn't afford any more injuries, but he couldn't stop playing with scabs or bites. Never could stop, not even as a kid. Nervous habit. He still had an infection on his hip that wouldn't heal where the guitar rubbed against him. Everything hurt, but as long as nobody saw it, he'd do whatever he wanted.
Right now, he wanted to stop the car and kick her out. The show last night was awful and he was pretty sure he'd have to fire the band permanently.
She turned the radio on, effectively silencing their conversation. A blues riff was playing and she let the dial rest there until the static got too bad.
He yelled when she changed it. His obsession with Blues was bigger than her tolerance for static.
"Stop at the next rest area. I'm hungry". Or "I have to go to the bathroom."
They were both cranky to the point they were ready to kill each other. But they didn't. Survival mode, tolerating each other moment to moment. But still, each was keeping track of the other's failures. Keeping score of all the items they overlooked.
She could never identify the smell in his car, but she thought of it as death. Stagnant food odors. Rotting newspapers. Him after he hadn't bathed for a week. Being in his car was like rattling around inside his brain sometimes. Or his stomach. Blues books lay dusty and undigested. CDs fallen out of their cases, things which were once useful or full of promise, collected and drying out in the heat of the car, baking in the sun.
She felt sick.
Last time she went to his house, he didn't want to get out of bed. She'd jump into her rental car and drive. Wondered why she was attracted to people who turned stagnant. Easier to drop them, she thought to herself. Even when she was madly in love, she wanted an escape clause. And she got them.
But when they pulled over, it was them against the world. Asking a waitress to hold the bread. Charming the waiters to make sure they didn't spit in their food. Battling the audience. They rehearsed the song and he played louder during the actual show. She threw him a few extra straight lines and he got the audience to laugh. She had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him a few times.
That night, he had trouble saying goodnight to her at the motel room door. But they had gotten a deal on the 2 for one rooms, and she was determined to get their money's worth.
Cherish-The Association
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