He looked over at her in the spotlight. She could slip into a song like it was a nightgown. Some were flowing, silken, long and gorgeous-out of a 1930's musical. Some were cute and skimpy, just the way he preferred; and she'd offer the audience a little bit of "coming attractions", like a bride on her wedding night, or a good girl gone bad.
She made him feel like everything was so close. Like back when he was young. That singing was so easy, it just mattered WHAT you sang. The difference wasn't that big. If one song wasn't a hit, then the next one would be. And it lasted, for a while. Every album had one or two really big singles, and the rest still got decent airplay.
Her voice sounded good in almost all of them, like a nice fitting pair of jeans. That was it. Her ass looked good in everything.
Like he could reach out to her and she'd embrace him like she used to. What broke his heart was how quickly she could slip into the Beauty and the Happy of a song. Damn, she was a good actress. Made him forget the fight they just had. Or not forget, but maybe let him think she had forgiven him. She was so professional. Smiling and winking at him, the same every night. The actions of an old married couple, trusting each other, trusting that the fighting always led to fucking.
But you could work your ass off, singing the songs. Even if they were the RIGHT ones, it mattered so much who was singing. And where they stood in popularity. Even now, when he sang the hits, the ones 40 years out of date, they sounded false on his lips. Like kissing the wrong woman. Or a woman who doesn't want to be kissed. Stiff somehow. Accepting a hug, but eager to pull away. He repels all the hits, all the successes. When they step offstage, she won't be talking to him.
But just maybe, she'll let him hug her when they are onstage.
So close.
Top of the World by the Carpenters
She made him feel like everything was so close. Like back when he was young. That singing was so easy, it just mattered WHAT you sang. The difference wasn't that big. If one song wasn't a hit, then the next one would be. And it lasted, for a while. Every album had one or two really big singles, and the rest still got decent airplay.
Her voice sounded good in almost all of them, like a nice fitting pair of jeans. That was it. Her ass looked good in everything.
Like he could reach out to her and she'd embrace him like she used to. What broke his heart was how quickly she could slip into the Beauty and the Happy of a song. Damn, she was a good actress. Made him forget the fight they just had. Or not forget, but maybe let him think she had forgiven him. She was so professional. Smiling and winking at him, the same every night. The actions of an old married couple, trusting each other, trusting that the fighting always led to fucking.
But you could work your ass off, singing the songs. Even if they were the RIGHT ones, it mattered so much who was singing. And where they stood in popularity. Even now, when he sang the hits, the ones 40 years out of date, they sounded false on his lips. Like kissing the wrong woman. Or a woman who doesn't want to be kissed. Stiff somehow. Accepting a hug, but eager to pull away. He repels all the hits, all the successes. When they step offstage, she won't be talking to him.
But just maybe, she'll let him hug her when they are onstage.
So close.
Top of the World by the Carpenters
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