Midnight Blue
Just a little Pink Floyd OS fanfic I wrote this past summer, hope you like it :)
***
What a dickhead!
These were the only words that had been echoing in her head for the past half hour, like a mantra mingling with the notes of Badfinger's Without You playing from the half-broken speakers of the dingy bar she was in. Of course, she should have realised it right away. What mentally sound guy invites a girl he's serious about to a place like this?!
With her nostrils flared, the girl let out all her frustration in a loud sigh, slumping onto her palms and half-closing her eyes. Idiot.
I'm an Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot!
She reopened her eyes only a few moments later, when the dull sound of a glass against the counter brought her back to Planet Earth.
“On the house.”
The man behind the bar, an elderly, bald man with the air of someone who has plenty, perhaps too much, to tell, looked at her with a gaze halfway between compassionate and pitiful.
The brunette gave a melancholy smile, raising her glass to the man before parting her lips to the bitter liquid.
Well, at least I got a drink out of it…
She snorted again. A strand of brown hair rose into the air for a moment, then fell back onto the tip of her nose, causing an annoying itch. It was just what she needed to snap her back to reality. That, and the music in the bar, which was no longer Badfinger. It was something worth hearing. Or rather, listening to.
On the dingy piano in the dingy bar of that godforsaken hole, sat a figure who was mysterious to say the least. A very tall figure in a black coat was bent over the black and white keys of the instrument. Looking closer, it almost seemed as if there was a man hidden inside that coat. As she downed the hot liquor, the girl at the bar looked spellbound at the source of that unusual, timeless sound.
The notes chased each other one after the other, like butterflies flying together, from flower to flower, to spark new life, new notes, again and again. In that moment, the bastard who had dumped her in that dingy bar no longer existed. And neither did the dingy bar. There existed that coat, that tall, mysterious man. There existed the sounds that his long fingers so skilfully produced. There existed colours and flavours. There existed her.
Without realising it, she was standing next to the piano, and next to him, her eyes closed as her body tried to decipher the emotions that the musician's notes stirred in her. When she opened her eyes again, he had finished playing and was looking up at her. It was at that moment that their eyes met for the first time: something in the blue-green eyes of the man in the big black coat betrayed a sense of helplessness and emptiness that was so familiar to the girl, as if she could see the reflection of her own eyes in those pools of water, and she was sure that the same thought was crossing the man's mind.
“What's it called?"
The girl's voice finally broke the silence between them.
“You tell me.”
The man's answer was immediate, as if he had been waiting for that question. The girl snorted, shaking her head and flashing a bitter smile, her arms crossed over her chest: she was definitely not in the mood for such games.
But as soon as the man started to get up, the girl seemed to change her attitude immediately.
“Stay. Just for one more song.”
The man's mouth twisted into an amused grimace, but his eyes betrayed him, that aura of melancholy seemed to be sewn onto him, just like that black coat.
The man played again, while the girl stood there, not making a sound, in religious silence, listening to the still nameless song.
The notes had become more melancholic, or perhaps the girl's feelings were playing tricks on her. Now she could see him better: he wasn't handsome in the literal sense of the word, but he was handsome. That distinctive face couldn't be just a face, it had to hide more, she was sure of it. His brown hair fell over his shoulders, framing his long, wide face, but somehow everything seemed to be exactly in its place: his eyes so small, his nose so long, and his mouth so big. Yet there was something magnetic about him, not conventional beauty, but something deeper. And it wasn't just his appearance, but the way he sat there, as if pain were dripping from his fingers. He looked like someone who had loved too much, or perhaps not enough, but who felt everything, and without filters.
When the man finished his song, he turned to her, a now open book: her glossy eyes and red cheeks left little room for doubt. On the piano, a bottle of whiskey filtered the artificial light of the bar in shades of copper and honey. The man grabbed it without saying a word, pouring the amber liquid into her now empty glass, which she still held tightly in her hands, and then into his own, resting next to the keys.
“Shall we move to a table?”
She nodded slowly, without a word. The rest was muffled: a table, another bottle, words whispered between sips. The back seat of a taxi, the click of a door closing behind them, and fresh linen sheets. And finally, his fingers. Those same fingers that had strummed the strings of her soul just a few hours earlier.
Then, darkness. Not the kind that takes away. But the kind that welcomes. The kind where you can finally let go.
When he opened his eyes again, the girl was still asleep, her head resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. Her dark, tousled hair hid her face, her naked body barely covered by the sheet. He sighed, pushing a strand of hair aside to look at her face. The girl wrinkled her nose, tickled by the touch, which made the man chuckle softly.
“Good morning.”
The man's nasal but delicate voice urged her to wake up, but all he got in response was a mumbled “five more minutes...”
The man smiled again, planting a delicate kiss on the girl's forehead. Then another. And another.
The girl finally opened both eyes, the wistfulness of the previous day giving way to a new lightheartedness.
She gave the man a candid smile before raising herself up on her elbows, her body turned towards him. The man resumed stroking her hair, his eyes searching hers for the words she was not saying. His hands ran along the girl's naked body, those very fingers that had managed to create such a hypnotic melody the night before, and which had then made her Woman and Desire.
The girl leaned in for a slow kiss, which he immediately returned, while his slender fingers traced the curve of her back and gently but firmly encircled her neck. With his lips still pressed against hers, the man whispered.
“Did you sleep well?”
“mm-hmm.”
The air was thick with a knowing silence, broken only by the sound of their slow kisses. After a few moments, he pulled away slightly, looking for something by the bed.
With a slight smile, he began rummaging through the books and small objects on the bedside table, but with no luck.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“A cigarette,” he replied, without looking up, his hands pushing the scattered objects around.
“Fuck me, I think I left them in my coat...” he muttered, frustrated, still rifling through the bedside table in vain.
She looked at him, a smile still on her lips.
“Do you want me to get it for you?”
“Would you? Thanks...”
The girl stood up, a shiver of cold running through her body. She picked up the dress that had landed on the floor the night before and pulled it on as best she could.
“Where's your coat?”
“Over there, on the chair.”
The girl tiptoed over to the chair, giving the man a sweet smile. She bent over the coat, searching the pockets quickly, eager to be back in his arms, if only for a little longer.
Her hands quickly found something, just not what they were looking for.
A ring. White gold, thin, with an engraving on the inside. She didn't read the words, she didn't need to.
The girl took it in her hand and turned it over between her fingers. The smile on her lips vanished suddenly, like a bolt from the blue. She turned to the man, who was looking at her puzzled.
The girl shook her head, took the packet of cigarettes the man so badly wanted from the other pocket of the coat and hurled it at him, before running back to the bedroom door, her cheeks now streaked with tears.
“Wait... Hey! Don't go, stay!”
But the door was already closed.
The girl ran down the stairs of the man's flat, grabbed her bag and coat, which she had left at the entrance, and, still barefoot, disappeared into the fog of the cold winter morning.
What a dickhead...
