strings attached

She listened to the metal clasp greet its counterpart before she made her way to the busstop. Small sleety snow jumped to her flushed cheeks making her face wet and her mascara smudge. Though she didn’t mind for she was smiling an inward smile out to the world as she reminisced about the previous two hours. Two hours that made a significant impact on her being. Two hours that forever changed her view of life.

A life that was filled with words yet no melody. Yet now she found the melody within herself and she was happy to have paid attention to her instincts. They were the same safe, satisfying instincts that made her aware of the good things in life. Like the comfort of a hug from a friend, the first sip of tea, her mother’s soft voice, and the look of recognition between her infant babes and herself peering back at them. It was the same wash of emotion that she followed that brought the familiar grin to her face while at the same time an aching came across her heart.

Solitude once more. Would she ever be rid of the feeling that all the best moments she had were by herself and not dependent on another human being? Was it as if she were speaking to the universe out there yet saying nothing aloud … it didn’t seem to make sense to her. Yet there was an eerie familiar attachment to that haunting feeling of aloneness that comforted her.

Adjusting her grip on her hard case she looked down the avenue to see if the number five was making its way down the gritty, sloppy street but saw no public transit with it’s neon lettering. Her electric getting heavy she propped her on end and leaned her against the cemented garbage bin. She propped her body against the tinny metal buspost. Normally waiting at the bus stop would make her nervous considering the time of night but this time she seemed protected by her guitar and her iron will.

A bitter wind picked up as if to taunt her safety and she responded by pulling her hood close to her face and folding her arms closer to her frame. Staring up into the depths of the night sky she watched orange, florescent, pastel flakes of snow fall gently from the darker depths of winter. Squinting she let pieces fall and let the coolness massage the soft folds of her eye lids and parched lips. Breathing in the brisk air she felt a feeling of contentedness fill her body and in thanks she turned her head once more to the gutter.

What was a girl like her doing in the late hours of night, standing at a bus stop with a guitar at her side? Dreaming? Making a fool of herself probably. But no she decided this couldn’t be the answer. The man had faith in her. He was her teacher whose words had resonated within her. As soon as she saw him standing in the basement suite with black woolen socks, gloves with the fingers cut out and a room filled with worn edged music books and vinyl all across the wall she knew she had asked for the right tutor. He had a head full of grey and a vintage Les Paul that looked like it was made out of the same wood that Pinnochio was carved from but he played it so well and the chords sounded like a beautiful choir. Yes she was in the right spot at the right hour answering a call that had come from so far ago.

A short distance away she heard the short burps of the transit bus dragging its way through the browned muck that was surrounding her feet. It sounded tired and worn, like her but she was content that she had found her muse. Looking up as the doors swung open she smiled at the wearied bus driver and climbed on with her guitar case in hand.

The number five route echoed a song of the past that night and she fell mercilessly in love with it’s melodic whisperings.

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