| When I return to the studio with a mouthful of Snickers bar, I notice her bag is open, and she has a notebook laid beside her on the control panel.� There's also a bulge in the shape of a small bottle in her pocket.� Eye drops, I guess to myself as I return to my side of the room, conscience of the emotional wall she's set up between us in my hiatus.� Her fingers tap on the soundboard in a steady tattoo to ease her mind and to help her concentration, but it's slowly driving me insane.� She knows I can't take the incessant beat, and she's purposely trying to make me break.� I silently vow to try to ignore the rhythm. "Petite, umm, it is still okay if I call you that, right?� You don't have to sing anything else if you don't want to.� I'm sorry I asked you to sing that.� Is there anything I can do to help?� He must have been a really stupid guy to hurt you enough to make you cry like that."� I pretend not to know what she's crying over as I ease toward her in an attempt to dismantle the blockade between us, trying desperately to take down the fence around her heart. "Actually," she states calmly.� "Never mind, it feels good to hear that old nickname again.� Don't worry about the song.� I was just remembering something from a long time ago.� It's no big deal, Loki."� She closes her eyes tightly for a minute or so, trying to block out the memories that threaten to put more tears on her pale face. "Okay."� I agree as I turn back to my work.� I can't press her anymore than she's willing to give, or she'll close on me even tighter than before.� I watch as she struggles with her inner thoughts that don't allow her to lose herself to the focus of the music anymore.� I watch from the corner of my eye as she glances at me for a while, then sighs frantically struggling to drown her misery in the song sheet in front of her.� She succeeds as the words begin to fly faster over the monitor and she scribbles harder on a sheet of notebook paper examining the lyrics and the music that is supposed to fit.� She wrinkles her nose and slows the tempo, but the look of disgust tells me that that didn't help any. I watch as she moves to another song, but keeps the same lyrics playing.� She changes the key of the music and speeds the chorus just slightly.� I sit in awe at her smile and pretend it's her genius, as she flips the switch to let me hear what her headphones are blaring. "That's amazing."� I gush as I bop my head to the new beat of the song.� She's taken a far too slow song and made it a dance hit.� "You've always had the knack for that type of stuff."� I smile back, just to see her smile more as she turns it off and saves it to a disk. "Thanks."� She shrugs simply, and I watch her cheeks flush ever so slightly at the compliment. "What's this, petite?� Are you blushing?� You're not supposed to blush!"� I tease as her cheeks deepen and she turns her head away. "Stop Loki!� You know I don't usually blush . . . it must be getting hot in here or something."� I allow her to get away with just the slight rib, because I do feel the heat in the room, but it's not exactly because of a thermostat problem.� Or maybe you could call it a thermostat, except this one can't xactly be controlled.� She slides her purple lacquered nails across a few buttons before gracefully floating to the sound booth.� "I want to know how it sounds with a female."� She smiles as she closes the door behind her and slips the headphones back over her ears. "What you gonna do? / Tell me / what you gonna do? / You thought / you owned me. / You'll see / it can't be. / I'm not / gonna play your games no more. /I met up with / your girl. / She said she was your world.� / Now what? / You think you're gonna play on me too? / Think again. / Ooh, I'm not the type / to sit around / while you go paintin' up this town. / You better grow up. / Think again. / I don't want your lies, now what? / Good-bye!"� She dances around in the booth, clearly enjoying the dance feel of the song she's created.� I motion her out so we can finish something else.� Maybe she's still got a bit of magic left for the rest of the crap I've scribbled on the pages. She slips back into her spot� like she was never gone, pulling up the next music sheet, and tugging her headphones back over the sloppy black and lilac tendrils that frame her face.� She accidentally knocks the chopstick out of its perfect position, and before her hands can reach to push it back, I tug it straight out of the knot. "Loki!"� She gives a frustrated scream, as she holds out her hand for the small rod.� I simply smile as the mass of raven spirals down her back, landing softly around her waist.� "Give me my chopstick."� The petite woman can be demanding when she really wants something. "Keep it down.� It's so pretty down."� I plead as she advances on me ready to kill for the slender stick in my fingers.� I step back a couple of paces before letting her catch up to me completely.� As soon as she gets close enough to have to lean over me for her accessory, I slip my arms around her, because I know that's what she needs, because it's what I need, and right now, I don't know or care if she knows it.� She pulls back almost immediately, but I hold firm.� "Don't fight, petite.� Just relax."� I see her wrinkle her forehead to contemplate jerking out of my hold and backing across the room.� Slowly, my thumb rubs small circles over the bare small of her back where her tank top has risen to reveal just an inch or so of white flesh.� She begins to relax, so I take the opportunity to rub her back more firmly, needing her not to move, and needing her just to let this be. "Loki," she attempts to hold back the sob that follows the name.� She allows her arms to move around me and her head to lean against my chest.� I lose part of my balance as her whole body slouches against me all at once.� She lets me move her over to the couch, and I set her down gently beside me, where she just falls into my lap.� There's nothing I could possibly do, but let her cry right now.� My hand unconsciously slides through her hair, begging without words for her nerves to calm. Slowly, the sobbing dissipates.� She leans over, reaches in her bag for a tissue, and desperately dabs at her blood stained eyes.� I help her to sit, inwardly rejoicing when she doesn't move away, but just leans on my shoulder for support.� Softly, I kiss her forehead just to disturb the wrinkles she's pressed so hard against it.� She doesn't care about silly things like signs of aging, and growing older, in her mind, she's always been the same age since she was 13:� 25.� Now, when she's rapidly approaching her "equal out" age, I'm beginning to see just how much of an actress she is, as she tap-dances around everything that might harm her.� By the time my thoughts are realized, she's already got the clear little bottle held over her head and she's dragging her feet back to the panel of knobs.� I can't stop her once she's intent on moving, so I just sit there and watch her.� The headphones go back on her head, and her hair is pulled back up, this time in a ponytail, so I can't pull it out and distract her quite so easily. I don't want her to close herself off again, but at this point, I've tried almost everything.� I've apologized, well, in my own way.� I've held her.� I've let her cry.� I would even let her take all her rage out on me if she wanted to.� A sigh slips out between my lips and hovers in the air.� I listen as she breathes it in and kills it in a snort of air out of her tiny angled nose.� I shake my head.� About now, I assume she's ready to kill me.� In the space of a couple of hours, I've smashed in her wall on her, and reduced her to a quivering, jumpy mess.� .� .all without meaning to. "She hates me, she hates me, she'll kill me, and she hates me," chants loudly in my brain.� I can't turn it off, and I'm afraid to try to approach her again.� She might stab me to death with the pen grasped lightly in her fingertips.� I watch as she fixes two more songs by swapping the music and reversing the tempo.� It almost makes me sick that she's so damned good at fixing my horrors.� She alters one more piece on the screen before looking at her watch.� It's pink and blue and has a fairy painted onto the face.� I have to catch myself from laughing aloud. The watch is so unlike her that it becomes lost in absurdity. �She blinks and looks at the watch again "I'm going." She announces, as she gathers her things off the soundboard and unceremoniously dumps them in to the faded backpack on the tile floor.� "I'll see you tomorrow if you aren't finished yet."� Quietly, she slips out the door as easily as she came in and her flip-flops smack the cold vacant floor until the front door slams behind her.� Her truck engine roars into life, and then she's gone.� That's it, no resolve, not even an 'I still care for you.'� I run my fingers through my short hair and sigh loudly in near relief to let out the pent up breath I've been holding.� Her chopstick is still on the counter, and she left a notebook on the floor.� She'll be back. |
| "RUNNING AWAY" PART 2 |
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