In the Indian summer days, time slips away on the screen porch like a comforting dream. He sits alone in the enveloping darkness, a single pillar candle in the center of the long table casting shadows on a good bottle of a Rhone red and a half-full glass nearby. One of his favorite albums bleeds out of the wireless speakers, the melody adrift on the gentle breeze, the voices of Grant McLennan and Syd Straw swerving around each other, then joining seamlessly.
How's a girl gonna sing all her songs when the world's gone wild, they wonder.
He looks up, just as she opens her mouth. She speaks so softly her voice wasn't startling, even though it was unexpected. "Sorry to intrude, but I was drawn by this song, one of my favorites on one of my favorite obscure albums," she says, punctuating the line with a coy smile.
She is an apparition in the darkness. He'd never seen her before.
"The play list is only half finished...and there's always the replay button," he replies, opening the door and beckoning her in.
"Let me get you a glass."
He hints at a smile as she sits down in the candle light, then gets up, goes inside, and returns, filling her glass with a healthy pour.
The next song tumbles out of the speakers; they nod ever so slightly across the table and take a sip.
She wears nondescript shorts, a tank top, and a zippered hoodie against the evening chill. Her auburn hair frames her face, curling behind ears and down the middle of her shoulders. Her eyes are mysteries in the shadows of the inky evening. The music and the breeze cement a curious connection, each of them enjoying the wine and the unspoken dialogue.
They listen, smiling eyes meeting briefly and bashfully, then darting off to stare at the breeze in the tree nearby. Bob Marley, The Box Tops, Lucinda Williams, Josh Ritter, Adele, Hem, and Over the Rhine come and go from the speakers. He thinks he sees her flush a little during the last song, "Born."
I was born to laugh
