Through Your Notes

Sunday

Sunday

1.23 a.m.

"The lasagne was great, K. You are a great cook."

"Thanks." I smile.

"What can you not do?" You ask.

"Sorry, what?"

"You can draw. You can write. You can cook." You scan the papers piled on the coffee table.

"It's not a big deal." I play with the loose strand of my favourite t-shirt.

"Of course, it is."

"You can play the guitar. You can sing. Can you?" I ask. "I mean, can you sing?"

You nod.

"There. You play the guitar and you can sing." I smile encouragingly. "You make all the girls swoon, I bet."

You smirk. "Oh, yes I do." You laugh and I can't help but join.

I bet the girls kiss the ground you walk. You're good looking.

"Let me sing you something." You stand up from the couch.

Oh, no. Don't. Don't make me weaker.

"What do you want to listen to?" You ask as you pull your guitar on your lap.

Nothing. I don't want to listen to anything.

I scratch and hum. "Do you know any The Beatles songs?"

"The Beatles?"

I nod. "I only listen to them. My dad plays their songs every day since I was a baby."

You laugh. "No other bands or singers?"

"Not really." I shake my head. "I do listen to some but The Beatles, mostly."

"All right then." You nod.

You strum the guitar. The tunes fill the lonely house.

You start to sing...

My favourite song: Hey, Jude.

And...

I got weaker.