Beware the Tempest

Beware

I slept at the studio that day, in one of the caravans buried under a heavier sleet of snow than that morning. The rest of the day had been me mostly working on the piano. After a few hours, Scot had come back, and we spent all evening working on more music. We were going at it until midnight, and Scot accepted my request to sleep in one of the caravans.

The showers were warm and steamy, and I had plenty of privacy as I dried my hair. Usual business calls. Update from Abigail that there still wasn't any news on Grammy nominations. Mentioned to my producers that I may have accidently written a song, but that they shouldn't get their hopes up. Promised I'd send the voice memo, anyway. Blanketed myself in several layers of jumpers as I stepped outside into the harsh, Winter night. Just in one of the other caravans, I could see his silhouette cut sharply through the snowy, windy night. I could see him open his caravan door, close it, flick on the light inside, close the blinds. I tiptoed by myself through the violent winds as snow sprinkled itself over my face, forcing me to shut my eyes. I reached my caravan and stepped inside, immediately feeling far warmer and comfier as I slid the door shut. I took my laptop from my handbag and placed my earphones in my ears.

One more album to go. The Waves. The cover was his shirtless self at the beach, a dark filter colouring the waves a dark blue, bringing out the shadows of his face, the graveness in his expression as he turned to the camera. I gave a brief look at the track list and remembered the soft blues inspiration in his otherwise pure pop records. This was the album that was released earlier that year, some of these songs were still playing on the radio that Winter. I tapped on the play button.

It was a much more mature album than those previous, yet he still managed to write those catchy hooks, keep that poppy sound, let his audience dance and celebrate. Time To Go was the one that had stayed at no. 1 on the charts for two weeks straight, I remembered. Though some songs were far more mellow, softer and calmer, like waves on the ocean. One of my favourites was titled Beware, which was almost entirely acoustic and the closest he had ever sounded to my own genre of indie.

Because they try, and they try, to take and control you,
They try, and they try, but they just can't see through you.
They try, and they try, but I hope you remember my call, oh,
Beware of the Bad Guy.

Beware of the bad guy,
Beware of the bad time.
Beware of what's been done,
Beware of the bad one.

He knows he can't have her anymore and she's moved on, but where she's going, who she's seeing, isn't right and isn't safe. He's trying to protect her even though she's far away. Warning her, telling her to beware danger. Beware the guy who may be hurting her. Beware of what's been done. Beware of the bad one.

A few more hit singles later, and I'd finished his entire discography. I closed my laptop and thought hard. In that moment, I couldn't help but wonder how romantic it was, that somebody would forewarn a friend of danger, even when there may be no chance of them heeding that warning. Beware, be careful, be safe. These words sounded less alarming in my head and, in those hours of the night, my brain twisted them to sound blissful and romantic and charming. Somehow, the warning was pure romance to my brain.

I flicked my lamp off, letting the sounds of the howling wind and plummeting snow calm and soothe me to sleep.

Though it was difficult to sleep, knowing Dale was only a few metres away from me. Knowing that I would spend every second of this night trying to distract myself from the fact that I was aware. Knowing that, while I tossed and turned, my thoughts turned on him, he slept peacefully, not even aware that I existed. Not even aware of the pain and love and ecstasy and confusion and obsession and excitement and horror and misery he was putting me through.