Page 11 of That Weekend in Paris
“I’m sorry,” I say, surprised, wondering what the reason is. I find myself wanting to reassure him. “I’ve talked to a few writer friends about it, and everyone seems to have a slightly different take on what to do.”
He appears to consider this, and then, “I’m not sure there is anything to do about it. I don’t feel like I have anything to write about anymore.”
I’m a little taken aback by the admission. “You’re too young for that,” I say, surprised by the adamance in his voice. I understand my own currently dry well. Disillusion. Disappointment. Betrayal. I have every intention of getting over it, if for no other reason than to show Josh I don’t need him. But I hear something different in Klein’s voice. And I’m not sure what to make of it.
The waitress arrives with our food, disrupting our conversation. We watch as she places the beautiful plates before us, the food arranged in colorful proportions designed to make the mouth water at the sight of it.She pours us each another glass of mineral water, asks if there’s anything else she can get us in beautifully accented English. We both say no at the same time, and with a smile, she leaves the table.
“This looks wonderful,” I say.
“Yeah, the food here is really something.”
“Have you been to Paris before?”
“No. First time.”
“Anywhere else in the country?”
“First trip to Europe, actually.”
“If you have the time, you should see some of the countryside,” I say. “You can pretty much get off the train in any small town and end up thinking it’s the best place you’ve ever been.”
He hesitates, and then, “I’d love to do that, but I’ll be heading back to Nashville once the show is over.”
“Ah,” I say. I pick up my fork, and at my cue, Klein does the same. “So, what’s next for you when you leave here?”
He toys with the pasta, twisting it around the end of his fork. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“More touring scheduled?”
“Not right at the moment.”
“Maybe that will give you some time to get back to writing. I know how hard it is to be creative when you’re on the road.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not feeling that too much these days, either.”
I put down my fork, listening for the undercurrent beneath his admission. Something is different with him. There’s a sadness in his voice I’ve never heard before. “Is everything okay, Klein?”
“I think I just need a break,” he says. “Some space to, I don’t know, get my feet back on the ground, I guess.”
“Are you planning to take some time off?”
“I am.”
“A few weeks of vacation can be just the thing sometimes. We all need a reset now and then.”
He’s silent for several moments, and I feel there’s more that he wants to say but is reluctant to do so. When he finally replies, his voice is low and sure. “I think this is going to be my last show.”
I stare at him, shocked, not sure what to make of the statement.
Before I can respond, he adds, “I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”
“Perform you mean?”
“That, yeah, and as far as the writing, I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything to say that’s relevant to what life means anyway.”
I debate my response because I have no idea where this is coming from, what’s happened in his life to bring him to this place.“I think your songs are relevant to a lot of people, Klein.”
“They’re entertainment,” he says with a shrug. “Nothing more. There’s nothing wrong with entertainment. I understand that people need it. I need it. An escape here and there. But in the big picture, it won’t mean anything. No permanent marks left for others to follow.”
