When things grew quiet, that’s when Dom became restless. There was something about moments of stillness and quiet that called to something inside him, begging him to destroy them.
Usually such relief came in the form of low bass notes blasting through amplifier speakers and drum beats that could rattle him. Usually.
Now, trapped by the storm in the crappy diner with Tana-the-waitress slouched silent inside a booth texting her boyfriend and the sound of the rain strangely symphonic against the large windows, he found himself wanting - needing - to do something.
Anything.
Break something. (No. He couldn’t. The diner might sue. He didn't have money. Last night he'd had to eat stale, leftover pizza that looked three days old and was probably older.)
Make a loud noise. (This option, however appealing, had the distinct and dangerous possibility of leading back to option one.)
Stew silently. Do nothing. (Not even an option.)
The need for action was becoming physical, an ache that made his fingers twitch against his jeans, where they rested on his leg. Once, a girl he knew well had told him he resembled a hyperactive puppy. In constant need of affection and attention.
He recalled how the comment had stung back then. It must have been his pride that had taken the blow then, because now, stripped of it and left with himself, he realized all too well she had been right.
Affection. Attention.
It always came back to those two.
Why do you want to be a musician, Dom?
For the Music, he had replied then. Music-capital-m. That, he knew was the right answer.
He’d really meant it too, back then. He couldn’t lie, not to her, she’d know. She’d looked at him - cool and level - and smiled. The smile said she’d read a thousand secrets in his eyes.
Dom could believe it too. Because this was her hobby, because she liked secrets and she collected them. From her he’d learned the secret to successfully lying and not getting caught. It was okay to tell the truth to the world, just all as long as you kept the important parts to yourself.
I think, she’d said, in a careful way that told him she already knew she was right, that part of you is doing it for the attention too. The fame.
He’d felt offended in a way only the truth could cause.
Thinking about her, about before, about how she was a million miles away (how far was their town from Los Angeles? He'd have to look it up), made his restlessness increase to unbearable proportions.
He had to do something.
And he had to do it now.
Before the everything - and he did mean everything - suffocated him. The rain, the quiet, the past. He slapped a bill on the counter next to his empty coffee and before Tana had even looked up from her phone, he was already out the door, into the deluge.
Normally, on nights like this, when he was burning restless and high on life, all roads led him to finding the closest party, getting a little drunk, buzzed enough at least, that whatever it was inside him threatening to claw out became less loud. Less urgent. He would find a race, speed enough and his thoughts wouldn't be able to keep up.
God, he needed that.
He needed it badly.
But tonight he knew he couldn’t. Tonight, he knew, was one of the nights when any push might make him topple, send him tripping over an edge he’d been trying to avoid. There would be no race (the rain had taken care of that already anyway). There would be no party.
So all that was left was going home. Home where home equals place of residence. Hearts had no part in this equation.
He would lie on his bed in the dark. Headphones on and eardrums straining with the heavy beats. Waiting as the monsters clawed their way out and hoping that there would be something left of him when they were done.
He was almost there now.
Already.
His life was made of cages. Home where his parents lived, home place of residence, his mind, his body. Life itself was a glorified cage. One he'd tried escaping.
He wanted - needed - something to happen. And the universe obliged.
Dom reached the dull building of stacked apartments where his own home was. He ascended the five floors to the top landing, pulling out his key from his pocket at the same time. He looked up to the dull and familiar, paint-chipped door. And he stopped.
His heart stopped and restarted within the same second. His breath caught uncomfortably in his throat. He was frozen by the sight waiting for him on his doorstep, wearing a black Arctic Monkeys t-shirt that had been worn so much it was now faded and neon-blue shorts and looking blankly in the direction of her phone.
Maybe the universe was listening after all.
Dom must have made a sound, because she looked up and she smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was a tired, relieved representation of a smile.
“God,”she sighed, “I am so glad you didn’t move.”
Dom still didn’t move. He still didn’t breathe.
He’d thought about this moment again and again, what he might do and what he might say. He’d never imagined it would come like this, though.
He thought about her all the time.
He’d thought about her today.
And now, by some twist of fate (cruel, cruel fate) somehow she was there, on his doorstep, soaked, tired, mascara running down her face, hair stuck wet to her cheeks, faded, black t-shirt clinging to her body, looking like a poster ad for sin.
Outside he could still hear thunder.
She looked everything like he remembered and nothing at all and in his mind memories awakened and fought and crashed against the bars of their carefully built cages.
She was there and somehow, as they regarded each other, it made perfect sense she would come as she had. With a storm.
