Remembering Autumn

Chapter Five

Two knocks against the door. He fought the pull to wake up, holding at the seams of his dream, but he blinked and realized he was back in his room. Already his dream forgotten.

"Cricket?" His Mom pushed the door open and poked her head inside. Her hair was pinned above her head, in a mash of auburn curls. "Trevor called," she handed him the phone, then smiled, "good afternoon sweetheart."

He untangled his long legs from the sheets, and could hear Trevor's voice talking away from the phone.

"-it'd be a huge favor. I really need it for this piece," his friend said.

Cricket cut him off, "Sorry, repeat all that again?"

"It's about time you get yourself a phone."

Cricket stood, "Not worth it. It'd be on the same place where my creativity lies."

"And where is that?"

"I don't know."

Trevor laughed. You can tell a lot from a person by what they laugh about. You can tell whether they laugh simply for the sake of laughing, whether you're funny, or whether they feel uncomfortable.

In Trevor's case, Cricket was yet figuring him out.

"As I was saying," Trevor continued, "I need you to record something for me." A grunt was heard from the other side of the phone, followed by a crash.

"Record what?"

"Bell laughing."

Cricket blinked, "Alright." He was used to Trevor's odd favors.

"Don't you want to know what it's for?" His friend insisted, and offered an explanation anyways, "I'm working on a mash-up. It's for her."

Cricket ran a hand over his face, "How am I supposed to record her?"

"Don't know." He knew Trevor was smiling, "that's why I asked you to do it."

"Fine."

His friend hung up. It was a Trevor-thing he'd grown to like: he never said goodbye.

As he placed the phone on his bed, he turned and his gaze focused on the stack of papers he'd left on his desk last night. He picked them up, and studied his blotchy handwriting. After watching Autumn walk up the stairs to her house he'd remained outside and sat on the steps to his porch. He'd stared up at the houses in front of him, watching the shadows of early birds walking about in their homes; stretching, hugging, making breakfast, and opening curtains, oblivious to the outside.

As the world around him awakened, he was ready to fall asleep. His memory became dodgy after that, he recalled he'd sat on the floor to his room and holding his guitar loosely he'd played the melody that had occupied his thoughts. Note after note, line after line. The complete song that lay before him was proof that some miracle had taken place while he'd fought a battle against sleep. 

He looked close to presentable when he trudged down the stairs to his kitchen. He heard the sound of scissors snapping away, followed by the chorus of women chatting. It meant his mother had a last minute client, instead of working at the hairdresser she was cramped inside the spare bathroom near the kitchen.

"I can't stop reading it," he heard a woman say, "It's so raw and emotional."

His mother said something in response yet the voices were drowned by the hairdryer.

He grabbed a mug from the cupboard, and set the milk to heat on the stove for his coffee. He always looked forward to this moment in the mornings, he felt at peace as he sat on a stool –if he found one– and held his warm mug in his hand as sleep slowly wore off.