The sound of the piano would fill the halls every Sunday morning. Before I could even make my coffee and my feet could feel the coldness of the wooden floors. Jack would smile when I finally gathered the strength to start my day, he would already be three songs in before 9 A.M.
Jack was a cliffhanger with a contagious smile. He was built from a series of small tragedies, held together with the best intentions. Friends told me I over exaggerated his perfection and my family loved him but were oblivious to the number of cigarettes he smoked. He always seemed lonely even in a room filled with people that knew his name; making it hard to tell if his smile was genuine or if the lifts in the corners were from the commentary of nonsense that he built empires around. He never saw the cup half full or half empty, instead, he thought of the different things he could mix with his bourbon. The bourbon he kept on the shelf while he drank his Jack and Coke. He painted visions in my head and played music like no other.
He prayed to God but cynically held his breath. His Christian school ways didn’t seem to stick but only because he never wanted to feel trapped and follow the steps of his father. Jack never had a reason to believe when everything he was given was taken back.
He felt the only way to live was to answer the questions himself and to learn along the way. I loved the way his mind worked, and how we would always exchange thoughts over the smell of black coffee and lingering smoke. He would pass his cigarette my way and I would always take a hit and fight my embarrassing need to cough. Mornings always felt best when he was around to share them with me, he would perch himself up upon the ledge of the porch and talk for hours on end and I would listen as the words bump into each other as they left his mouth. I smiled.
I always wondered what it would be like to pick away at his brain and inject myself with the intentions he was laced with. He had a way of leaving his mark on everything he touched, signing his name on the places we’ve been and becoming my daily routine. He never belonged to anyone only the things he let get the best of him.
The problem with falling in love with an artist is that they are always more addicted to something else. I could never satisfy his craving only waste his time like his bourbon. His dreams were bigger than the oceans and mine barely scrapped the surface.
He lived near the beach, in a place made for one. It overlooked the hills and waves and the salty air blew through the open windows. Everything was his in the one-room home, he worked for what he had, all except the piano.
He loved the piano with everything in him and I loved the way he said my name. He would softly play with the different notes and pursed his lips together, the way he always did.
He looked up and subtly smiled my way when he saw my eyes drawn blank. He playfully nudged my shoulder to check if I was still there, but he never stopped flirting with the piano keys. He loved everything about that old piano, even the way two of the keys didn’t work and it made things sound unfinished. His love for it was effortless and romantic, while the sound of the music took him somewhere far from my reach.
I could no longer live in these morning routines anymore. I couldn’t love with sincerity while watching his heart somewhere else.
I got up and attempted to walk away before he grabbed my hand and pulled me back in; this was a game we’ve played more than once before. He looked at me with daring eyes and without much hesitation, I sat back down. He pulled me in closer and took my hand and gently pressed my fingers on the keys that he wanted them to touch. Placing his hands over mine and guiding them everywhere his went. He was letting me be a small part of the pursuit that his fingers lived for.
“Its not the same as when you’re playing,” I said while trying to get comfortable with the unfamiliar movements of our fingers overlapping. The simple act of attempting to playing the piano never felt right for me, our hearts were beating off key and they were never going to line up the way he wanted.
“You’re right--,” he paused, re-adjusting his posture, “but one day it will.” He smiled and nodded with positivity.
He continued to guide my hands where he wanted them, exploring the different sounds the keys made with mine there. His hands were warm and felt like home. I knew I was selfish, selfishly in love with someone that was in love with something else.
“This is how my mother taught me how to play... she said she always wanted me to feel what she felt,” his voice began to crack and his hands were slowing down. “and I’m just trying to share it with you too.”
Why wasn’t that enough for me?
His mother wasn’t there to dance with his fingers anymore and I couldn’t help ease the memory. I knew that life would catch up with him next.
His smile softly faded away while letting go of my hands and letting them fall where they were. My fingers felt lost without his and I let them slip away from the keys while I silently built up the courage to walk away.
I felt everything and nothing at once, he could complicate my breathing with every move but he knew I would never stay.
I’m sorry that the piano didn’t make me fall in love.
I was slipping through the cracks of time, becoming nothing more than a distant memory and even though I’m speaking metaphorically, I knew that’s what he saw too. I sat up and gently kissed the top of his head. He let me walk away that time because he knew such thin lines hung between what I felt and what I didn’t.
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Hazy mornings always were the hardest to put my head around. They all started to feel about the same. While the sun sneaks in through the cracks of my blinds letting me know that life is ready for me. I’m a mess even in my own bed and when I would finally manage to place my feet on the cold tile, wearing a shirt just long enough, I would make my coffee.
It was Fall, my least favorite season. It was just a friendly way of reminding me Winter was soon to come and the Holidays were just around the corner. Things had changed and life moved on from the last time I saw Jack in the Spring.
My mornings were the same and life still moved forward leaving my mind behind debating my every desire. I sit down but I really want to stand up, maybe even run for the door and jump in my car. Drive to Jack’s house and tell him what I could. How I missed the way his hands would talk to me and I can’t find the brighter side of being alone. That I still smoke those cigarettes and I still don’t know how.
Although he was gone, he still infected my daily routine. He lingered with the smoke or at the bottom of my coffee. Sometimes I even still heard the songs he played, and the parts that sounded unfinished.
It was always just a bit off key kind of like my mornings.
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