#63 Pop Song In Prose

We’re back, baby. Let’s jump straight into some fiction. Today, our narrator lives out the story of a tragic pop song. What more could you want on this beautiful March morning?

To join you on this journey is Devendra Banhart’s Baby. My recent musical discovery. Enjoy!

If you’re after more, cradle the cot of the archive.

For free e-books by other authors, click here.

#63 Pop Song In Prose

I met you as we stood over beers, our mutual friend explaining how the two of you knew each other, the smell of damp clinging to our coats, the sound of car wheels through rain sizzling in the background as the door to the pub slowly fell into place. We talked about our best and worst tube lines, how many teas and coffees we drink in a day and the impact it has on our drowsiness. I explained how I measure my heart rate and the impact caffeine has on it, and left unspoken what was happening to it in that moment.

You sipped your beer and I admired the way you embraced the froth on your lip, leaving it there like a masterpiece hung in the National Gallery. You laughed when I joked about Phil, the old geezer on reception at my work, missing half his teeth, who seems to think smoking is his full time job, and who must be the master of crosswords. You stayed for an hour, talking to me, when our mutual friend left to meet her partner for dinner.

You left and when you did you said, ‘We should do this again… I’ll see you round,’ and I left with images whirring in the projector of my mind of how that meeting might manifest, how we might get to talk one-on-one again. 

I sat at the café opposite your office, not in a creepy way, it was only around the corner from my own office. I could say I just chose to sit somewhere else today on the off chance anyone questioned me. I watched as bodies streamed in in the morning. I examined every face, hoping to see yours, disappointed by the sight of the wrong hair, the wrong smile or the mole I’d learned you never had. 

I went to everything our mutual friend invited me to, in the hope you’d be there. We went to the cinema to watch beasts trample bridges, to watch heroes die and be reborn, to watch lucky so-and-so's escape what can only be described as certain death experiences. We went ice skating, even though I hate it, and some arse cut me off and I fell to my knees, our mutual friend howling with laughter even though my knees were cut. I played shuffle board and went axe throwing despite my brittle wrists. I drank pint upon pint of Guinness, in the hope that you’d stumble in and say: “Wow, a Guinness man…” or at the very least, quietly think to yourself, this is my kinda guy. I like him.

But for all my efforts, you never came. Never turned up. Never got to see my big smile, or my bad sportsmanship or my weak bladder after alcohol. And I got blue, so blue my veins turned to ice. I stared out the window on rainy nights with Ralph, my black tabby cat. I dreamed of you, long nights with you, long laughs with you. I thought of all the horrible things songs said I could do, could sacrifice to be with you. I cried staring at your Facebook profile picture. I ate croissants for breakfast with a slowness I’d never known.

One day, I’d had enough. The blues had hit me so hard I didn’t know if I’d ever make it back, unless I dragged myself out of that hole. I found our mutual friend. I said to her: what’s the deal with this girl? I want to get to know her. She’s my kinda gal.

And our mutual friend said, ‘Oh, that’s funny. I’m meeting her in a minute. But didn’t you know?’

‘Didn’t I know what?’

‘She has a boyfriend. Long term. Been together five years.’

I tried not to let it show. My mouth dropped. The door opened, and suddenly I was surrounded by Hellos and His and How-Are-Yous, and then there she was, her beautiful, perfect smile, her giggle that I’d memorised from that night. And there he was, taller than me, a perfect stubble across his chin and cheeks, a smile stolen straight from an aftershave poster. We shook hands. ‘Good to meet you,’ I said.

‘You too, mate,’ he clapped me on the shoulder, and in my head I saw myself in third person performing the finest judo manoeuvre to floor him, my elbow landing perfectly on his neck to demonstrate how I could kill him instantly. But then our hands parted, and she said, ‘We’ve got to go. Theatre tickets.’ And they waved, and there I was, standing on my own, wondering what parallel universe this life was, a very different one from the night we spent talking together. 

I walked home in the rain without bothering to take my umbrella from my backpack pocket.