Page 23 of Habits

I’m not sure what I was expecting. What I wanted to find here.

Why am I even here? Why?

Just as I turn around to go back to my car to drive home, where I can get stoned in peace, I hear it.

At first, it’s soft. So soft I almost miss it. I almost write it off as a product of my Mary-induced imagination.

I stop in my tracks. Staying still and just listening.

There is music flowing through the air.

Light. Almost inaudible.

I tilt my head to the side, listening carefully. Once I’m sure I hear it, I slowly start to move toward the sound.

I’ve never been a big fan of music, going with the flow of what everybody around me is listening to at the moment. When I’m in the car or working out, I turn on the radio and pick the loudest station there is. Music filled with the sound of heavy drums and the deep wail of guitar. But this is something else.

Something completely different.

Something I’ve never heard before.

The melody is slow, tender. Almost like a lullaby. It’s gliding through the air, like it’s from another world.

Beautiful, alluring,haunting.

It’s pulling me in, like a lost sailor on the ocean.

Like the howl of the wind.

My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. And I have to grip harder the little that’s left of my blunt so I can steady my hand enough to bring it to my lips.

I move as quietly as possible, following the music. The sound becomes more painful and heart-wrenching as I get closer.

Following it until I come face-to-face with Jeanette-fucking-Sanders.

She’s standing in the darkness, but it’s like she doesn’t even notice it. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted to the side, chin holding the tiny piece of wood tucked between her shoulder and chin. The bow she’s holding in her other hand glides over the instrument. Like a lover’s caress bringing out the most beautiful of sounds. Her body sways with the motion, her short, black hair brushing against her shoulder—which is completely naked if we exclude the tiny strap of her bra.

I swallow hard, watching her play. It feels intimate somehow, even though she’s fully clothed. Even though she’s playing in the darkness of her living room. Watching her like this, without her knowing, feels more intimate than looking at her naked.

Seeing her like this, it’s like I can actuallyseeher for the very first time. See beneath her cold, sophisticated exterior. See beneath her bullshit and bravado. Because when she plays? She’s a completely different person. She opens up, bares her verysoul.

I stare at her.

Without blinking.

Without moving.

Withoutbreathing.

I stare and stare, listening to that song that has me knotted up inside. Listening to her shattered, bleeding heart that she’s hiding from everybody.

Hell, maybe even from herself.

Maybe you have more in common than you thought.

As I try to shush that annoying voice, her eyes snap open.

I don’t know if I did or said something to get her out of her music-induced haze, but now her eyes are set on me.

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