Of Feathers and Fools

This is an old short story I wrote awhile back - not too long ago, just a year or two ago. But I've been thinking about it lately and thought I would post it on here. It's not my usual genre or style - for starters, it's romance, and it's also present tense. But it's good to try something different sometimes.

Of Feathers and Fools

Sitting in the high street with your steel strung acoustic guitar, your right hand strums the strings with delicate passion as your left moves to change the chord and note. Back against the lamppost, your foot taps the pavement and you close your eyes, letting the words flow flawlessly from your mouth. There is a rawness to it all, your voice enveloping passersby in the emotion it carries and I find myself watching from the doorway of the bookshop instead of stacking the shelves like I’m supposed to be.

            The song sounds familiar and I try to place the lyrics but every time I think I’ve got it, your voice pulls me back in and I forget what I was thinking. The songs change every Wednesday when you’re here, all except for this one. You play it every week and yet I still can’t remember where I’ve heard it before. That’s the curse that comes with daydreaming, thoughts so fragile and fleeting that I can barely hold on before another knocks them away.

            The pavement glitters in the sun from the coins that have missed your case, silver and copper against the harsh, cold grey of stone. A good week this week it seems, though most of your audience gets its show for free. It hardly seems fair - singing on the street for barely a twenty when you could be on the stage somewhere with a microphone and stool.

            Another powerful note brings me back to the song and a shiver runs through my body, my eyes closing briefly. What was I thinking again? It barely seems to matter as you close up the song and I realise it must be nearing three o’clock. Time for you to disappear for another week which means it’s time for me to get back to stacking shelves.

            The last few notes of the song drift in through the open doors as I pick up the box of last week’s top ten and I force myself to focus on where I’m headed instead of turning around to watch you. One of these days, curiosity will get the better of me and I’ll find out just where it is you go or if you simply disappear. You’re gone so quickly most weeks that it really wouldn’t surprise me to see you there one moment and vanished into thin air the next.

            Box number three now sitting out of the way, I stretch and curve my back as I stand, one arm up in the air and my other bent at the elbow, hand resting on my neck. A perfect manoeuvre. Except for the part where I nearly crash into the customer behind me as I bring my arm down. I can feel the heat rising up my back to spread across my cheeks and burn at ears, embarrassment causing my eyes to drop to the ground. A mumble slips past my lips and I’m sure it was supposed to be an apology though it sounds nothing like it out loud.

            He laughs and takes the blame which makes me feel worse. Especially since I recognise that voice, even if I can never remember where I’ve heard the song before. It’s you… your voice asking me if I’m okay. And there’s a tiny touch of gravel to it, yet the smoothness wraps around me like a warm blanket. Or maybe that’s just the touch of your hand on my arm, steadying me. 

Finally I raise my head to look into pale blue eyes but I’m too stunned to speak and so I nod instead. It makes your smile widen and I catch the glimpse of a dimple in your cheek. My eyes fall again. What am I supposed to say with you standing there right in front of me? What am I supposed to do that won’t make me look like the fool I am? So I ask you what I ask every other customer I’ve talked to in the store. Only I stammer and can’t look you in the eye. “C-can I help you with anything?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a book.” I barely hear what you say, too busy concentrating on my breathing as my head begins to spin a little. But I manage to nod again, signalling for you to carry on and you do. You take a step away and place your guitar case on the ground, your hand going up to your chin as your eyes scan the shelves for the elusive book you just can’t find. “I can’t remember the name or the author but I remember the cover. It was white and had a feather on the front.”

“A feather…” It sounds as familiar as the song you sing and I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere recently yet my mind stays blank. For a moment, my eyes join yours in their search of the bookshelf but the only white cover holds simply words, no feather. So I move to kneel down next to the boxes of the old top ten, my fingers running along the folds of the last one I’d moved as I open it to search inside. “If we have it, I’ll find it. It just might take awhile.”

“No rush.” Your voice is relaxed and you turn away from the books to face me.  I can see it in your eyes, just how willing you are to wait. So you tell me you’ll be back and I can do nothing but nod as you turn and leave the store. It isn’t until you’ve made it out of the door that I realise you’ve left your case behind.

Within moments, I’m at the entrance, calling out but I don’t know your name so I can only call you Mister instead. You’re gone, of course. Just like every other time. You disappear and I never know where to. Perhaps you merged with the disbanding crowd or maybe you truly did vanish. But you’ll be back - if not for the book then for your case. Your guitar is as much a part of you as page is to a book, or a wing is to a bird. I can’t imagine you without it.

But you don’t come back. Not that Wednesday, or the following Wednesday or even the Wednesday after that. Then a year later, I stop coming back too and it’s another four years before I find myself at the store again.  It feels like a lifetime and the place has changed so much – I’ve changed so much. For starters, I’m a writer now and my book is in the top ten. I can see it on display from where I sit signing autographs for customers who don’t really know who I am. But my name is on a cover of a book so I must be famous right?

The song on the radio sounds familiar and I close my eyes to listen as the last customer wanders away with their newly signed book. The cover is white and instead of a title, the front holds only my name and a picture of a single feather. I didn’t even realise how it matched your elusive book until I walked through those doors and saw the distant memory in play. I wonder what happened to you, you and your steel strung acoustic guitar.

I imagine watching you from the doorway, the afternoon bright as you lean against that same old lamppost. The lamppost is gone now though, just like you, but the memory remains. That voice of yours that entranced me as the notes from your guitar danced through the air to make my body vibrate. I miss those days.

“You found my book.” The voice wakes me from my daydream and my eyes snap open to meet a pair of pale blue orbs. They haven’t changed since those five years ago. Still so patient and so bright, locked with mine as you hold the book in your hand, your fingers tracing the outline of the feather. “Will you sign it?”

I open my mouth to speak but my mind knows no words that can adequately cover the confusion of my thoughts and just like before, I end up nodding instead. My grip loose on my pen, I take the book from you and rest it on the table. I’ve been signing my name all day yet now I can’t even remember what it is. A sly glance at the poster on display reminds me and my pen moves to the blank front page, only to pause. “W-who do I make it out to?”

“Matthew.” Without hesitation, you answer. It makes my heart speed up to hear you finally have a name. I repeat it in my mind before allowing the ink to stain the page, making sure each letter is just right before I finish up and hand the book back to you. I’m almost reluctant to let go when you reach out and take it, fingers brushing lightly against mine. “Can I ask where you got the idea from?”

“It was a dream I had, a long, long time ago.” A dream I had as a child to be more accurate. A dream half forgotten until five years ago. About a girl who found a feather and with it, an angel with the most mesmerising eyes she had ever seen. Eyes much like yours.

Your hand snakes out to sit below my chin and you make sure I can’t look away. But hand or no hand, I couldn’t have looked away even if I had wanted to. Your gaze holds me in a trance and I barely even notice my own hand moving to feel the skin of your cheek. It’s soft to the touch, reminding me of the feel of feathers on a warm summer day. And I suddenly fear you’ll disappear again.

You smile softly and shake your head though, as if you know exactly what I’m thinking. Without saying it, you’re telling me you won’t disappear. Or at least that’s what I hope you’re saying. Still that song on the radio plays, only now I wonder if it was you who put it there. The familiar words and chords from a steel strung acoustic guitar. Once it fades, will you do the same?

But then you say something that I can only remember clearly from twice before - as a dreaming child and as a foolish bookshop girl. And the same words fall from your lips now, relaxed and patient, calming my erratic heart. Just like that time before, I can see it in your eyes, your willingness to wait no matter how long that wait may be. 

“No rush,” you say and a sigh slips passed my lips as you lean in to kiss my forehead. 

I can feel it in your kiss, that you would wait an eternity should you have to. But in that moment, I decide I can’t. I won’t let you disappear again to fade away like the waning notes of that familiar song. Whether awake, or whether still a child dreaming, I won’t let go. 

Even as the shop closes and the streets empty, the sky falling dark, stars invisible through the thick haze of orange from the lampposts, I hold on tight. I can see you clearly in my mind, sitting in the high street with that steel strung acoustic guitar. Your right hand strums the strings with delicate passion as your left moves to change the chord and note. Back against the wall, your foot taps the pavement and the words flow flawlessly from your mouth. The song echoes around my head and I clutch onto you all the more. Like a child clutching onto a feather they found in a dream. A feather that belonged to an angel with pale blue eyes.

“Don’t leave,” I whisper, eyes closed, afraid to open then in case I find you’re already gone.

“I never have,” you whisper right back, your breath warm against my skin. “I never will.”