Page 47 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Skip turns in his seat and looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

I nod. “Yeah. Let’s hear it again.”

I’ll do whatever I can to make Eleanor happy.

Even if the guilt kills me.

* * *

In the car, the exhaustion hits me. It’s well past midnight and, though I’m a night owl by trade, nature is starting to catch up with me.

Eleanor sits alert in the seat beside me, bobbing along to another one of Diane’s songs that plays through the speakers of my car.

It took some teeth pulling, but I got Skip to send over the MP3s. What good would they be doing just sitting on the computer with no one to listen to them?

“God, she’s so good,” Eleanor says, putting her hands on the sides of her head and leaning back in the passenger seat.

I laugh through closed lips and nod. I always thought the same. Children, of course, love the things they love without knowing the quality of it. As an adult, though, I can now say that objectively, she is good. A little rasp of Lucinda Williams with a tough of Emmylou Harris lightness.

“I can’t believe she didn’t get famous,” Eleanor says, glancing out the window as the scenery rolls by.

“Music scene is tough,” I say simply and readjust my fingers on the wheel.

“I know. I mean, all art is tough,” Eleanor replies. “But this is really good! What’s wrong with people?”

I chuckle. “You should start evangelizing the gospel of Diane Bloom.”

“You’re right, I could start a new religion.”

I glance at Eleanor for a moment to capture an image of her. Corkscrew curls tumbling from the top of her head like a fountain, a serene smile on her lips, eyelids lolling low in that delicious hypnosis of good fucking music.

I could start a new religion too. “You think this discovery could help with the exhibit?”

Eleanor sighs heavily. “I mean, it certainly helps. But without an original photo, it feels like it might be a fool’s errand.”

“You should still try,” I say, turning onto Eleanor’s street.

“I will, don’t worry.”

My chest warms.

I pull the car in front of her apartment, and put it in park. Eleanor makes no move to go, and I’m grateful. I want to bask in her a little while longer.

“Sorry, just want to finish the song,” she says.

“I’d never dream of interrupting that,” I say.

Eleanor throws a smile in my direction, then lets her eyes close.

“Something told me you were mine / But the world had a different plan . . .”

The lyric hits my chest like a dart as I watch Eleanor listen. Something is telling me she’s mine. Something deep in the core of my being. But gut feelings are often an excuse for people to act rashly. Maybe the world’s plan doesn’t align with the way I feel.

I’m breaking my own damn heart before I even give Eleanor a chance to.

Her eyes pop open. “I should have brought my camera.”

“I’m shocked you didn’t.”

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