First #fridayflash short story of 2011... and I've actually managed to keep below the 1000 word limit. I'm sure that won't last...
I’m in your bedroom, writing this song, trying not to make an obvious rhyme like ‘but I keep getting the words wrong’ because I know you wouldn’t respect that. You called me “the greatest lyricist of our generation” after all, do you remember, Evie? Of course you remember. It was the day we met. Well, the day we first communicated. The internet’s an amazing thing, isn’t it? That it could bring us together like this. How could you have known when you tweeted “I love Terry Tribeca, I want his babies!” that I’d be sitting there in my peeling wallpaper hotel room after that piss-bottle gig in Newcastle, late and lonely, just looking for someone to make me feel worthwhile... that I’d see your message and think: ‘thank you’?
You became my muse, I’m apt to confuse, the thoughts… the thoughts… the thoughts… This new album, Evie, it’s all about you. You had such a shock when I replied, you couldn’t believe it was me. Even though it had the verified tick next to my picture to prove the account was genuine, you were certain it was just my manager or somebody in my entourage mucking around. “Entourage”, ha. I guess my world seems a whole lot more glamorous from the outside. The crazy thing is, 15, 20 years ago, I probably would have had an entourage. I’d have had a record company that threw money at me, I’d have had stylists, publicists, photographers, hangers on… but those days are gone. Like I told you that first night we chatted, I don’t do this for the money. I do it because I have to. Because the songs are inside me, screaming to get out… and if I don’t have that release, well, I think I’d just go crazy, you know? Lose it completely. The songs keep me sane.
Not everything’s an accident, sometimes you have to be provident, if you want to make a start, in matters of the… The following night, when we bumped into each other at that club in Coventry, that wasn’t just coincidence, you know. I can tell you this now, we’re close enough that you won’t think... I went there to find you. I saw you talking to your friends about it on Facebook and as I didn’t have a gig that night and it was only a couple of hours on the train and I thought it’d make for a good song… Knock-Outs, remember? You said you didn’t think someone like me would be seen dead in a place like that. Didn’t I get recognised all the time? The truth is, hardly anyone ever recognises me. Your friends certainly didn’t. They didn’t even believe it was me. Yeah, I’ve been on the cover of the NME and my face is all over the internet – but everyone’s face is all over the internet. Unless you’re actually looking, you wouldn’t notice me. I’m not exactly a pretty boy, though “my unconventional look matches my unconventional lyrics,” says Alex Petridis in The Guardian. Though I guess since meeting you, my songwriting’s become a whole lot more conventional. You know I almost wrote a ‘swim any river, hike any mountain’ song last night? Maybe I’ll have a pop hit and flush my indie cred with it. That shit doesn’t matter anymore. I want to take you to Paris and Rome and New York, and not in the back of a fucking tour bus, Evie. I want my own private jet, like Bono. I never wanted to be Bono, but for you, Evie, for you I want to be Bono. I want to be whatever you want me to be.
I saw you in the arms of another, I went to pieces, then and there. I knew I wasn’t your only lover, just don’t tell me more for him you… Clumsy. That’s fucking clumsy, man. What’s happened to my writing? It used to come so natural. My mind’s on other things right now. That second time was a mistake, I admit. You were with your fiancée at that restaurant in Nuneaton. Not the classiest of establishments, but Michael wasn’t really the classiest of guys, was he? When I saw where he was taking you for your anniversary… I wanted to show you how much better you could do. That’s all. Crispy duck and a cheap Merlot? Is that really all you were to him? Caused quite a scene that night, didn’t he? Your ex… I know, I know it’s an adjustment, thinking of him in that way after all those years together, but you need to try. Part of you still expects him to walk in the front door any minute and start whinging about his shit day again. How much he hates his boss, wishes he could find something else, always wanted to be a fireman. Of course I read your blog, even though you don’t use your real name, enough of your friends know about it, leave messages on it, link to it… it’s hardly a secret. That post you wrote about me, long before we even met, that was what convinced me. You understood. And yet, by him, you were misunderstood. “Shame he’s not hunky enough to be a fireman - LOL!” That’s what Rachel wrote in your comments. She was right, of course, Michael was hardly a body builder. He couldn’t even fight me off.
You can’t have her, Mike. You’re not the man she really likes. I saw you leaving your office at night. My alibi is airtight. Mike. I know you don’t want to hear the details, Evie, but it’s done now. You don’t need to worry about him any more. We can get on with our lives. Come on, Evie, open the bathroom door. Talk to me. I’ll turn the music down if you promise not to scream again. Please, Evie, don’t be mad. Open the door. Don’t be like all the others…
