Two Different Roads

Hello Texas

He was tall and lanky with dark, soulful eyes that appeared much older than the face they were attached to, a mouth that seemed infinitely more comfortable in a frown than a smile, and a mass of thick, wavy, black hair many women might envy. Honest, perhaps even pleasant-looking, but not really conventionally handsome. Dressed in simple, faded jeans, boots, a checked shirt and denim jacket, he was unassuming, the epitomy of "average", the type of man you might pass on the street and not even notice.

Quite frankly, when he took the stage at the Troubadour, Ellen didn't expect much. That all changed within the first few notes. He sang in a clear, pure voice that delved down into the farthest reaches of a tenor one moment and then soared effortlessly up into an angelic falsetto the next, covering all manor of emotions from anger to love, sounding first harsh, strident, then changing to tender and sweet, sometimes within the confines of the same song. He was quite funny as well, bantering easily with the audience, winning them over with anecdotes and jokes that illustrated a slightly goofy, unique, even eccentric mind.

One example of this came late in the set and was directed to Ellen personally. She looked up to find those piercing, ancient eyes locked upon her own as he said in an entirely dead-pan, serious tone, "Nine is brown."

She gathered her wits quickly, played along without missing a beat; "Three is red."

Her response elicited an endearing, crooked grin that proved the beginning of a connection that would last, more or less, for the next seven years.

~*~

He had noticed her immediately as she crossed the room to sit at a front table someone had fortunately just vacated. But then, it would have been impossible NOT to notice her. She was easily the most beautiful girl in the room, the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen anywhere for that matter, tall and lithe with flashing, emerald eyes and an abundance of ringleted hair the color of fire.

His eyes traveled leisurely over every line and curve of her perfect body before at last coming to rest on her exquisite face, the face of a madonna. Suddenly, his mind was filled with visions of that face close to his. He could almost FEEL the sweetness of her kisses. She would taste like strawberries, WILD strawberries.

The thought consumed him, made it nearly impossible to concentrate on his set. No one would have ever known it though. At the tender age of twenty-two, Robert Michael Nesmith had already learned the art of iron self-control. Becoming a sucess, proving himself, was a need almost as great as breathing. He was focused, ambitious, hard-working, brilliant, and creative, all attributes that would make him a millionaire before he was twenty-five and an even richer businessman by the time he was in his thirties. But for now, he was a struggling musician, and he had neither time nor patience for distractions. He saw his future clearly, and the steps he needed to take to get there were all mapped out carefully in advance. Falling in love (or lust depending on your point of view) at first sight with an achingly beautiful stranger way out of his league definitely wasn't part of the plan. It was rash, impulsive, and stupid, that's what it was.

And yet, he found himself heading straight for the table where she sat like a queen presiding over her court as if his feet had a will of their own. His biggest fear had been that she would leave before he had a chance to talk to her. Fortunately, though, (or unfortunately, also depending on your point of view) she was still there, and she was even more beautiful up close.

For the first time he could remember, he found himself speechless. For several seconds, he could only stand and stare helplessly in mute awe at the godess before him. Finally, he gathered his courage, extended his hand in greeting, introduced himself, "I'm Michael, Michael Nesmith." Idiot! The emcee introduced you. She already KNOWS your name.