Mary Without Sound
With Her Back Against Us All: 3
3: This is Where I Fumble and Fold
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks of near silence, three weeks of me trying to learn to interpret her different expressions.
So far I’ve learned she loves Corn Pops and cherry Pop-Tarts, because when we go grocery shopping, she buys the family-size boxes .
I’ve learned her favorite show is Scrubs because she watches the re-runs whenever they’re on but turns off the tv if they’re not.
I know she’s very sarcastic because she always gives me that look with her eyebrows when I act strange or state the obvious.
I know her most prized possession is that fancy film camera, because I’ve watched her clean it on more than one occasion.
What I don’t know is where she takes that camera.
The evenings she disappears with it and comes home late at night.
If I’m up, she’ll have this huge smile on her face as she walks in the door with her camera in its secure bag. She usually stops smiling when she notices me noticing.
I’ve yet to learn what she smiles about.
I hate not knowing.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Today, I come home from rehearsal with the guys for the upcoming tour, and I know.
I know she’s found it; my guilty pleasure.
I don’t know how I know, but I’m right.
When I get there, she’s sitting in my music room, my space.
For the first time in awhile (approximately 3 months, 2 weeks, 6 days, but who’s counting?), pure anger ripples through my veins, washes over my skin.
“Hey!” I explode heatedly.
An over-reaction, yes.
Her head turns briefly to acknowledge my presence, but then she turns back to the shelf.
I can’t think of anything else to say, and my short burst of fury wears itself out as quickly as it came.
She turns to look at me again, blue-gray eyes full of intrigue and something else I can’t place.
She reaches for the Radiohead album on the table to her right, tapping her fingers against it to show her approval.
“My sister bought that for me ages ago,” I oblige her curiosity.
She gives a slight nod than continues onto the next row after carefully re-shelving the Radiohead one.
If she thinks she has time to look through all my records, she’s crazy.
She’ll be here all night, and all day tomorrow, too.
What I’m saying is there’s a reason I have so many.
Drugs do it for some people.
Alcohol for others.
One night stands, comfort food, cleaning-
I don’t know, whatever works, I guess.
Me, the love of my life leaves me and I haul ass to the nearest record store and buy out their “new arrivals” section.
She suddenly holds up a Beatles 7 inch single off of Help!, turning to give me a half-smile.
“That one…Ca- uh, someone gave to me.”
That eyebrow quirks, notifying me of my strange behavior.
As if I don’t already know.
“I have a record player,” I say, changing the subject. “It was my dad’s, so it’s kind of old. But you can use it, if you want.”
I don’t know why these words come out of my mouth.
Normally, no one is allowed to touch my records, let alone the record player itself.
Not even Casey laid a finger on any of them, aside from the ones she personally got me.
“It’s not in the best shape, but it works pretty well,” I find myself saying, as I open the closet and haul a heavy box over to the table. She stands up, looking on curiously, the record still in hand.
I take it out of the box and blow the dust away.
“Here,” I say, holding out my hand for the record.
She crosses her arms slightly, looking at me with an expression that clearly says I’m not an idiot, I’ve worked a record player before.
“Sorry,” I say, allowing her to lay the record down and smoothly drop the needle. “Usually I don’t let people touch it.”
A look of comprehension dawns on her face and music fills the room.
Silent apology, maybe?
“It’s okay, though,” I assure her. “I don’t mind.”
She gives me that look with the eyebrow, what I’ve come to know as the “Mary look.”
“Okay, I do mind,” I admit. “But really, I’m a big boy. I can share my toys.”
The corner of her mouth turns up in an amused half-smile and I can’t help but grin back.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks of near silence, three weeks of me trying to learn to interpret her different expressions.
So far I’ve learned she loves Corn Pops and cherry Pop-Tarts, because when we go grocery shopping, she buys the family-size boxes .
I’ve learned her favorite show is Scrubs because she watches the re-runs whenever they’re on but turns off the tv if they’re not.
I know she’s very sarcastic because she always gives me that look with her eyebrows when I act strange or state the obvious.
I know her most prized possession is that fancy film camera, because I’ve watched her clean it on more than one occasion.
What I don’t know is where she takes that camera.
The evenings she disappears with it and comes home late at night.
If I’m up, she’ll have this huge smile on her face as she walks in the door with her camera in its secure bag. She usually stops smiling when she notices me noticing.
I’ve yet to learn what she smiles about.
I hate not knowing.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Today, I come home from rehearsal with the guys for the upcoming tour, and I know.
I know she’s found it; my guilty pleasure.
I don’t know how I know, but I’m right.
When I get there, she’s sitting in my music room, my space.
For the first time in awhile (approximately 3 months, 2 weeks, 6 days, but who’s counting?), pure anger ripples through my veins, washes over my skin.
“Hey!” I explode heatedly.
An over-reaction, yes.
Her head turns briefly to acknowledge my presence, but then she turns back to the shelf.
I can’t think of anything else to say, and my short burst of fury wears itself out as quickly as it came.
She turns to look at me again, blue-gray eyes full of intrigue and something else I can’t place.
She reaches for the Radiohead album on the table to her right, tapping her fingers against it to show her approval.
“My sister bought that for me ages ago,” I oblige her curiosity.
She gives a slight nod than continues onto the next row after carefully re-shelving the Radiohead one.
If she thinks she has time to look through all my records, she’s crazy.
She’ll be here all night, and all day tomorrow, too.
What I’m saying is there’s a reason I have so many.
Drugs do it for some people.
Alcohol for others.
One night stands, comfort food, cleaning-
I don’t know, whatever works, I guess.
Me, the love of my life leaves me and I haul ass to the nearest record store and buy out their “new arrivals” section.
She suddenly holds up a Beatles 7 inch single off of Help!, turning to give me a half-smile.
“That one…Ca- uh, someone gave to me.”
That eyebrow quirks, notifying me of my strange behavior.
As if I don’t already know.
“I have a record player,” I say, changing the subject. “It was my dad’s, so it’s kind of old. But you can use it, if you want.”
I don’t know why these words come out of my mouth.
Normally, no one is allowed to touch my records, let alone the record player itself.
Not even Casey laid a finger on any of them, aside from the ones she personally got me.
“It’s not in the best shape, but it works pretty well,” I find myself saying, as I open the closet and haul a heavy box over to the table. She stands up, looking on curiously, the record still in hand.
I take it out of the box and blow the dust away.
“Here,” I say, holding out my hand for the record.
She crosses her arms slightly, looking at me with an expression that clearly says I’m not an idiot, I’ve worked a record player before.
“Sorry,” I say, allowing her to lay the record down and smoothly drop the needle. “Usually I don’t let people touch it.”
A look of comprehension dawns on her face and music fills the room.
Silent apology, maybe?
“It’s okay, though,” I assure her. “I don’t mind.”
She gives me that look with the eyebrow, what I’ve come to know as the “Mary look.”
“Okay, I do mind,” I admit. “But really, I’m a big boy. I can share my toys.”
The corner of her mouth turns up in an amused half-smile and I can’t help but grin back.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thanks: dorkosaur & lg.fuad.