Blonde on Blonde spun on repeat all afternoon.
He sat, tapping his feet and strumming his fingers, staring at her from across the table, searching for something to say. He wasn’t one for small talk.
She sat diagonally from him, used to this kind of display by now. Regardless of his oddities, she had all but resigned herself to the relatively unfortunate circumstance of loving him.
They had been together for almost a year now. There had been some rough patches along the way, but she liked to think he made her happy.
He remained stagnant in his chair, every so often glancing at her hazel green eyes, being mindful not to stare too long. He looked again. Couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t he just think of something to say?
She blushed sometimes. Maybe her mom was right that she deserved better. He didn’t have much going for him other than his hazy (and fading, to be honest) dream of becoming a writer.
They sat in silence, ceding to Bob Dylan’s melodic jeering.
…Well, Shakespeare, he’s in the alley/With his pointed shoes and his bells/Speaking to some French girl/Who says she knows me well…
He still lived in his morbid apartment – perpetually cluttered and reeking of whatever boys his age typically exuded.
Yet she knew she couldn’t escape his quiet charm. She adored the hint of a smile he flashed whenever she called him by his middle name.
He knew she wasn’t the prettiest girl he’d ever met, nor the funniest or smartest. But she had this strange appeal akin to a fleeting moment of bliss. The same feeling he got when he drank wine in the park after work or dug his toes in the sand by the ocean, soaking in the fading sunset. Thoroughly alluring indeed, but far from everlasting.
Still, didn’t he always get that pit in his stomach after those times, wishing he could have done something to make them last longer? One more sip of wine, one more ray of sun. If only.
He had nothing to say.