Passing college is a difficult task on its own, but imagine what it's like when your final grade rests in the hands of the worlds' favorite rock-star.
As graduation from her local community college approaches, Reese Taylors yearns for some answers...
{ melodrama } - a film where the characters have extreme and intense emotions
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I'm notorious for working in silence.
Whereas most of my classmates jump at the opportunity to plug in their AirPods, or don't hesitate to tell the Professor yes, we want to listen to music, I prefer to work in a space where I'm alone with my own thoughts. Where it's me and the assignment or task in front of me—aside from driving, of course, I think only serial killers don't jam to their playlist at deafening volumes.
There's also the small detail that I get distracted too easily—I'll find myself humming the song, googling lyrics, or writing the lyrics into my essays.
But, as I sit on the practice room's couch, my legs draped over Lennon's with my laptop resting on my thighs and his acoustic guitar resting on his, I don't care about the noise. The soft strum of the cords by his calloused fingers while he practices a newer song on their set list isn't distracting at all. It's calming—its presence known but not obnoxious.
And I'm sure the man doing the strumming is to blame for that.
I glance at him over the rim of my computer. His head is bent down, watching his hands contort into the difficult cords that are muscle memory to him at this point; he knows what they all are, now just piecing them together in the different melodies, much like each track is its own puzzle. His fluffy brown locks aren't secured under a faded baseball cap, and the strands dangle over his forehead, covering his eyes.
His hair is truly a moneymaker when it comes to his fans—Rosie could give you a twenty minute report with receipts just on his hair alone and what its appeal is to the audience, and I quote "their sexual awareness."
I can't help myself—reaching out my hand, I push his hair back toward the tip of his head, where his forehead meets his hairline. The hair doesn't stay—of course not. But it gave me a reason to brush my fingers through his soft hair, and maybe helped him see for a few seconds.
Not that he needs it. He can play with his eyes closed. Blindfolded, even.
A smile graces my lips as a thought passes through me. I can totally see Logan blindfolding Lennon on-stage, the crowd losing their minds as he performs the song to excellence—relying on muscle memory rather than sight.
With that happiness comes a dull ache in my chest. I've only been to two shows and I can already feel myself missing it—that post-concert depression setting in before the videos and pictures arise from their summer tour.
And it may also ... just maybe, be the fact that they'll get him. Even if it's just for one night. He'll make them feel special—tell them all it's the best show and the best crowd they've had so far. It may be true sometimes, but even with the same words spoken at every show, they never lose their meaning. The crowd screams and remembers those words for the rest of their life, after they've returned home and the band moves onto the next city for the same thing to happen all over again.
