A Thousand Times Over Again

(C) 2012, Mindi Williams

All rights reserved.

It was another sleepless night for him.

The bright red hotel clock numbers on his nightstand had imprinted themselves into his eyes. They burned, his eyes, from being kept open so long. If he had bothered to spare himself a glance in the mirror, he would see that he had dark bags under his eyes, a pale and gaunt face.

9:17 PM.

It would mean that back home, it was 5:17 AM, and Laurie was probably still asleep. She was probably curled up on her side of the bed, more than likely in one of his t-shirts, and probably sleeping with a teddy bear on his side of the bed because, somehow, in their crazy life, she’d managed to fall in love with him and she’d so stupidly gotten used to having a companion sleeping beside her.

And he was just as stupid. He was used to seeing her long, slender body next to him at night, her pretty blonde hair pushed away from her face, blankets pulled up underneath her arms. He liked that. She liked that—sleeping next to one another, that sense of intimacy, the sense that someone really was there for the other. But so suddenly, he was ripped away from her—from his home, from his real life.

Suddenly, after scribbling down his name on a few sheets of paper for a hot shot record company back in London, his music was everywhere. Mostly, that one song. Laurie’s song. And it had been titled ‘Laurie’s Song’ for as long as he could remember—but they made it famous, and now it had to be called A Thousand Times (Over Again). But the song was so skewed now it was hardly the same as it was before it was famous: they added electric guitars, drums and even a violin and a sax. Back in their flat in London, all he did was strum a random tune on his acoustic guitar and sing it to her, softly.

But they changed the name because if he went around dedicating all his songs to the same girl, the fans would lose interest—nobody wanted to listen to someone who made it so clear that he was so entirely dedicated and in love with someone, that his listeners (other than her) never even had a shot with him.

He was passionate about music. But he wasn’t passionate about a famous musician’s lifestyle. Always on the road. Always without his muse. Without her. This life was just music and paperwork and meetings and bigwigs from studios and the record label. He only wanted to strum his guitar in front of Laurie, back home in London, singing Laurie’s Song as she leaned her head back against the sofa with a smile on her face and a cup of hot cocoa in her hands and those silly, furry slippers on her feet. He wanted to be wearing his faded old t-shirts and his ripped jeans—not trendy, stylish things that someone had “advised” him to wear.

He couldn’t work like that.

So he picked up his phone from beside him on his nightstand and dialed Laurie’s number—their home number.

It rang three times before she said, “Hello?”

“I love you,” he said immediately.

There was a quick pause, a short hitch of breath. “I love you,” she said earnestly, from the other line. “I miss you.”

He shut his eyes and tried to focus on her voice, on the darkness of his room. But New York City’s bright lights outside his hotel window kept his room brightly lit, but he somehow felt like he was back in London. Only, their flat never lit up with the city, really. “I’ll be home soon, Laurie. I promise. And, God, I miss you.”

“You know you can call me whenever you want to. I’m always here for you to talk with,” she said, her soft voice sounding sleepy.

“I know, baby,” he said quietly. “Go to sleep now. You have to work tomorrow, I guess. I don’t want to be keeping you up until it’s time for you to leave.”

“I love you,” she said, her voice slow and staggered as if she were falling asleep already.

“I love you, too.” He paused. “And Laurie?”

There was a quiet “Hm?” from the other end of the line.

“I know you’re tired,” he started slowly, “but don’t forget to hang up the phone.”

He didn’t receive a response—instead he was met by the soft sound of breathing on the other end of the line, slow and peaceful, as though she was indeed already asleep with the phone still perched beside her ear, stuffed into the crook of her neck, probably.

He smiled, though. He hung up his phone quietly, imagining his Laurie there beside him. He would be home soon. And maybe then he’d never leave.

The thought made him smile.

“Perhaps I won’t,” he murmured to himself.

________________________________________

This is just a short story. I have several novel ideas that are really driven by music (ahem, boys in bands and stuff like that), so I just decided to test out the waters with the whole musician thing. But this story came from an older idea of mine, one that was more of a composition of short stories following the same guy, some famous musician. But I decided to just go for the one short story.

Either way, my novels are not going to be as sad or angsty as this short project. There isn't really a lot of the whole "tortured artist" thing that I want to delve into right now. I'm not into heavy duty, angsty books when it comes to writing them.

And, no, our leading man does not have a name. Truth be told, I didn't even bother thinking of one for him. So it's up to you! :)

Leave comments and stuff--let me know what you think! And feel free to leave me messages, I'm kind of social!