Can love save my music?

I met him on the stairs. I remember it so clearly because he looked so alpha-male standing there with so much confidence. He had short curly black hair paired with a strong nose and supple lips, crowned off with radiant green eyes. Anyone could see he was comfortable in his body as if he owned the world in his tight, (but not too tight), slacks that complimented his figure and a gray v-neck with just a hint of hair showing. I had a hard time of not drooling, nevertheless talking to him. As it happens, he was on the only stairs that led to my apartment. Begrudgingly, I made my way over hoping beyond all hope that I would not trip.

“Hello. Excuse me?” I said. He looked at me in confusion until I pointed at the stairs.

“Oh sorry!” he said, jumping out of my way. I flush and move to go up the stairs. “Wait! I’m new here, could you show me where the laundry room is?” He hurriedly asked grabbing my arm with soft hands. I looked down just now seeing he was carrying a laundry basket. I almost melted at the quality of his, (british), baritone.

“Sure, this way,” I said trying not to get too flustered by his mere presence. I then lead him up the stairs.

“So what’s your name? Mine is Jeremy,” he said this to fill the silence I made with small talk I was entirely too afraid to.

“S-ss-sady,” I mumble still out of sorts from his voice.

‘That’s a beautiful name. I just moved here from Iowa. It’s very, how do you say, rainy,” he replies. I laugh in spite of myself.  I widened my eyes and my mouth dropped. Yet, again, I was shocked.

“Oh! That’s quite a ways away.” I say a little late, having almost forgotten to reply I was so lost in my thoughts. “I grew up in Puolup and moved here for school. Why did you decide to come here?”

“Oh I just got a job here,” I remember him saying. He had a proud voice with his british lilt of course. He looked at me with curious eyes and walked to my pace, taking great care to be nice.

“Oh? Where do you work?” I asked genuinely curious. What if he works with me?

“Hmm? Oh! At the university. I will be a music teacher. I moved here because I heard the other teacher lived here,” he said distracted at first though he was looking directly at me. Oh no! Not music.

“That’s cool! You do seem a little young though,” I say trying to appeal to his narcissistic side. All he does is look at me questioningly. I, once again, lose myself in his eyes. Why does he tilt his head just to the side and look at me with such soft eyes.

“I know. That’s what everyone says when they first meet me,” he says this with such a matter of fact of tone that anyone could tell he wasn’t big-headed about it. “I graduated early and the university offered me a job and I jumped on it,” he had a tilt to his eyes and his fingers tightened on his laundry basket in apparent excitement.

While we were talking we had somehow gotten to the laundry room with me noticing. In this moment, I looked away from his eyes, feeling my old pain and seeing that we had arrived. The room was small and square with just two of each blue machines.

“We’re here. I have to go,” I say hurriedly. Just another musician. They  are all the same.

I used to be passionate about music. Almost a local legend in my playing abilities. Sadly I couldn’t win every competition. My adoptive parents were mad after a particulaly bad one and let’s just say I hate the colors black and blue.They didn’t hit me after that but I was still scared.  I didn’t want a life that had so many expectations of me. I was tired of playing concerts and recording music. It had lost it’s glow and genuine love. Music is nothing without a committed and loving composer and player. I had lost that love. I came to seattle in hopes that I would lead a boring, yet peaceful, life as a local librarian.

I almost ran, I was in such a hurry to get away from him. I must of looked stupid hopping and almost tripping over my two left feet. I look back just once when I hit the stairs. He was staring after me with a questioning look in his eyes. My breathing was ragged and my chest was rising and falling as if I was in a race.

I knew he wasn’t here to make me feel bad, or bring up memories. They came just the same. All those nights when my parents would make me practice. I once loved music and now it reminds me of bad memories.  When I moved out I refused to play anymore. Why should I when no one was forcing me to?