L'Ermite

Tillie is on the verge of scowling and telling the other person to “fuck off”, but her brain registers the voice as something familiar. Its only when her vision settles that she recognizes her friend; Always there when she needed her, always beautiful. “Dia,” she sighs, dragging her name out as long as her breath could last. The corners of her mouth instinctually lift to form a smile, something she couldn’t quite help when the other girl was around. Suddenly she isn’t so anxious anymore. The quickened heartbeat she’d been trying to conceal had altogether dissipated. If Dia was here, this dance may actually be something she’d enjoy - something fun. She lifts her hands to gently cup her friend’s face, and plants a quick kiss on her right cheek. With the dim light of the setting sun surrounding them, she doesn’t notice the berry lipstick stain she’s left on Diana’s skin.

“You’re jus’ th’pers’n I was looking for!” Her voice is a few decibels too loud, but luckily for her, the music helps to conceal her shouted slurred words from onlookers. She frowns at her words suddenly, lifting her hand to cover her heart to show that what she says next is earnest. “Well, tha’s a lie - but! I’m glad to see you. I didn’t expect to see you. Y’know - at all this.” She makes a sweeping gesture towards the door that separates them from the dance. In the midst of the movement Charlotte notices her empty hands. “Oh shit.” Her head snaps to the side, eyes peering in the grassy area just next to them. She was searching for the faint glimmer of light reflected off of the silver flask, but was having no such luck. Her knees bend to lower her down. She frantically pats the spots next to her, and when she comes up empty, she starts to crawl around in pursuit of what she’d lost. In all of her panic she forgets that Diana is standing there watching her.

Dia’s eyes frantically searched Tillie’s face, watching the expression change from anger to something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but she knew she liked it. She felt her face flush hot, as if all the blood in her body rushed to meet the spot where Tillie kissed her and she felt herself instinctively pulling away from the girl though she wished badly that she hadn’t. Her fingers moved to touch her cheek, feeling the waxy print left behind by her lipstick. She did not bother to rub it away, wearing it instead like a badge. 

→ dream a little dream of me, diana & tillie

Tillie’s mind was always racing, ever focused on what was to come. If it wasn’t homework, it was an exam. If it wasn’t studying, it was helping to organize meetings for SNCC. If it wasn’t for school, it was about her family, her budding plan to reach out to Beatrice - or similarly, how her father would react. It seemed that the part of the brain  responsible for helping her to relax was permanently switched off. But as Tillie is lying there on Dia’s bed, feet propped against the wall and head hanging off the edge, there is nothing else she can think about but how wonderful her music is. Her talent had always amazed her. From the first time she heard Diana play until now, she had only improved (which Tillie thought was impossible). And though she would never say it aloud, every opportunity she had to listen to Diana felt like an honor. She watched her attentively and quietly, careful not to distract her with any noise. As she plucks away at the strings of her bass, Diana’s face is calm but focused. It was an expression that Charlotte had grown familiar with during times like this. A soft smile draws her lips upward. She thinks now, just as she’s always thought, that Diana is the most beautiful person in the world.

Her eyes fall to a close so that she can take it all in, but the music carries her somewhere else. Suddenly she’s fifteen again, sitting snug in the bay window by the porch of her father’s home. Lenny is playing his saxophone outside into the darkness of the front yard, Dream a Little Dream of Me’s familiar tune swelling in the humid air. The fireflies light up to cheer him on. The willow tree gently sways its branches. Tillie is humming along softly. For a moment Diana is there too, that familiar playing face cemented on her features. The deep tones of her bass ground the song, but her delicate voice lifts it to new heights. If there was ever a moment of pure happiness, this was it; Tillie’s private band - and they are the perfect duo. Neither is too loud or too eager, Lenny saves Dia in the spot she fumbles, but allows her to shine everywhere else. Tillie could stay here forever.

But Dia’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts. Suddenly she is back in Le Troadec, back in their little world. “Yes, Dia. You’re boring me to tears,” she scoffs, finally opening her eyes. As intelligent as she was, Tillie never quite understood how Diana could say the most ridiculous things. How could she ever be bored when there was so much talent to admire? How could she be bored when she was with her favorite person? “You already know that I don’t mind. But if it bothers you so much why don’t you just play another?” 

“As I figured.” Dia said, humored. Keeping with the rhythm of the original piece, she began to play freely, creating a conglomeration of bits and pieces of melodies she’d written but never bothered to expand upon. The tune became more upbeat, and swing-like. Closing her eyes and allowing herself to drift away in the music, she was transported back to New Orleans, on one of the evenings she’d sneak out the backdoor just to listen to the jazz musicians on Bourbon Street. She imagined herself playing among them, the lone bass player in a sea of brass. Her playing became more vibrant, with the echos of trumpets and saxophones to assist. Having been lauded as ingenious by her music professors, she was reticent to admit that her style of playing was based on the fantasy accompaniment that followed her, in a way she felt it was cheating. 

- It was a small school and for the most part Acacia felt like she did recognize a lot of the faces she would pass. She would definitely not say that she knew every single soul on this campus but she did know enough from the various classes she took to the numerous organizations and clubs she associated herself with. But then there would be the people she would constantly just see, from the familiar faces of the people who typically got coffee at Topped Off at the same time as her or would frequent the same table at the library to study.

“It isn’t,” she quickly retorted, realizing the girl was not someone that she was familiar with. “I thought you were my friend. I run into her a lot around now and there isn’t many people that would come to the library so close to curfew, but it is a good a place to hide from whoever or whatever, I suppose.” Acacia took a cautionary step away, glancing above the girl’s head to see the letters on the aisles. The feeling as if she already spoke too much had settled in and she was ready to find herself an out, but her mind was coming up blank.

Dia blinked and then narrowed her eyes, studying the girl in front of her. The lack of recollection wasn’t a surprise, she had a tendency to stay to the shadows, speak little in class, and fail to appear at any and all social events with the exception of some open mics at Topped Off. It was, in its way, relieving that she could go anywhere without recognition or acknowledgment. 

“You’re in Dr. König’s advanced French class, right?” She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable with the eye contact she had been making, deciding rather to focus on her long white finger nails and the way they contrasted against the yellowing pages of the biography. “I sit in the back row. We do know each other.” 

It was a typical Saturday morning for Diana, who had begun plucking away at her bass before she had eaten breakfast. In between sips of coffee, she’d practiced classical movements for class, before moving to the jazzier numbers she actually enjoyed. 

She was performing for her typical audience of one, a Miss Charlotte Broussard, who was truly the only person Diana enjoyed singing for anyways. With her, it felt more natural, as if she was the only person she was meant to be singing for. Regardless, Dia was much too shy to sing in front of anyone else, she’d only been able to sing in front of Tillie after years of knowing her.

Lowly, so not to wake up those in adjacent dorms, she began to play the opening notes to “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” specifically Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald’s rendition of it. The piece was practically carved into her bones, she need not even think to play it from beginning to end. Smiling softly, she began mimicking the scat Ella opens the number with, something she found a little silly to do herself. Her natural alto was never quite able to sing Ella’s high notes as smooth and effortlessly as the original, which embarrassed her every time, causing her fingers to fumble for just a moment. 

Meredith glanced down just briefly enough to see the flask, before directing her eyes forward again.  She took it carefully, lifting it to her face to sniff what was in it– eyebrows raising at the strong scent of hard liquor – before sipping gingerly, relishing the slight burn.  “Well someone came prepared.”  Tightening the cap back on, Meredith grinned, if not directly at the other girl than for her.  “Thank you very much.”

As she slid the flask back across the table, someone else began speaking into the microphone and the audiences attention coalesced back onto them, providing Meredith the opportunity to actually get a look at to whom she owed her gratitude.  Her face was familiar, though she couldn’t place a name to it.  Another moment to consider, and then applause rang out again, cueing Meredith to shift her gaze back to the stage once more.  “Advanced French, with Dom, right?”

Another student took the stage, this one clearly having been to slam poetry nights before, as every stanza was full of emphasis and enthusiasm, in an almost theatrical way. As he went on about the Viet-Cong, Dia’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. Not everyone had what it took to be Allen Ginsberg, apparently. “All the poetry greats were or are alcoholics, I think this is the right way to consume the art,” she took a quick swig, exhaling a bit to dull the burn, “it makes it hurt less, too.” 

Diana shifted a bit in the vinyl seat, angling toward Meredith, her legs crossed. “Yes,” she nodded a bit, “backrow. I don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Diana, or Dia somedays. You’re Meredith, right?”