A/N OK, I give in, I’m posting this.  This is the beginning of a short I’ve been working on for years, literally.  And this is all I’ve got.  And I’m getting sick of it.  I’m posting it here, though unfinished, in the hope of gaining a fresh perspective on this.  I had my mom read it and what she said was “Why are they gay?”  I need more input.  So I’m counting on you!  Please, help me out!  Review!! 

The Look of Love

Do you want to hear a story, a good one?  Alright.  Once upon a time, in a faraway and enchanted land, there lived a young prince…  Just kidding.  Picture me as I was, oh, six years ago, back in my glory days as a young and impoverished university student trying desperately to make his way in the cruel, indifferent world.  Got a mental image?  Good, let us proceed.  

A few days before the fateful night, I got a phone call from my friend Libby, inviting me to accompany her to a show that Friday by a local band she was absolutely in love with.  It would take place at the small pub near the campus, a real happening venue for the up-and-comers of the region’s independent music scene.  I had been there a few times in the past, and had found the music to be of consistently good quality.  I had never heard of this particular act though so, being naturally curious and having no other plans, I accepted.  I was to pick her up at her place at seven o’clock.

That day, I was running late – as usual.  It was half past six, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready.  By the time I was showered, shaved and dressed (“casually, but nice” as Libby had suggested), I only had five minutes to drive across town to the university’s student housing if I wanted to avoid feeling the wrath of my impatient friend, a drive which could take twenty minutes on a good day.  I grabbed my keys, jumped in the car, and tore through the streets heedless of any speed-limit or stop sign, knowing that problems with the law were nothing compared to Libby’s scorn.  Somehow, I got there in time and was dashing up the stairs when my watch chimed.  It was seven.  I heard a door slam somewhere down the hall, and a few seconds later Libby appeared at the top of the staircase.  “You’re late,” she informed me indignantly before stalking past.  I glanced at my watch. 7:01 PM.  Yeah, late.  I turned on my heel and followed her out to my car, admiring my brilliantly haphazard parallel-park.  I had avoided by mere molecules the bumper of the car in front of me, my right wheels were both on the curb...  Libby snickered and sent me a teasing glance over her shoulder.  “Well, someone was sure in a hurry!” she said.  I shrugged and smiled ruefully, reaching for the handle on the passenger door but she beat me to it, thwarting my attempt at ingratiating myself to her by being a gentleman.  Ah well.  I slid behind the wheel, started up the engine, and began extricating the car from the parking spot without damaging anything.  Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy but I pulled it off, impressing both myself and Libby.

In spite of everything, we got to the club in plenty of time to secure a table right in front of the small stage where the band was already setting up its instruments.  We ordered our drinks and chatted idly as the pub filled, and finally the show started.  Immediately, the crowd quieted down, and the music took over, enveloping us completely.  Even the floor seemed to pulse in time with the deep throbbing of the bass guitar as a slow, moody saxophone solo drifted into the air.  The melody was soon picked up by the piano as it deftly wove its jazzy riffs in and out of the more languid sax.  Clarinet, electric guitar, various percussions...  All these were added to the mix before the one with the saxophone stepped up to the microphone, pulling his instrument from his lips and using his own voice.  And what a voice it was...  Soft and sultry, slurred by an obvious southern drawl and probably by the Jack Daniels’ sitting in a half-empty bottle on the stool next to him, it flowed into the pub’s smoky atmosphere like warm honey.  I was so taken by it, it was a few minutes before I was able to take notice of anything else, and when I did I couldn’t move past him.  It struck me how youthful he looked, and though he couldn’t have been more than a few years younger than me, maybe twenty, his big eyes and slight build were more reminiscent of one half that age.  His dark hair hung unkempt and soft-looking almost to his shoulders and kept falling in his eyes, forcing him to reach up and brush it back occasionally with his long, graceful fingers.  He wore somewhat nondescript black clothing, as did the rest of the band, and all these dark tints contrasted sharply with the pallor of his skin. 

The first part of the show seemed to go by in a blur, and I was vaguely surprised when the band left the stage for their break.  Still feeling the aftershocks of the music, I turned to Libby and was about to make some inane comment concerning God knows what when I saw the wry amusement on her face.  “What’s funny?” I asked, confused.

“You,” she replied, her smile broadening.  “You’re hot for him, aren’t you?”

“Who?  What are you talking about?”  Stupid question.  I knew exactly who.  Worse, I knew she knew that I knew.  Still, it seemed like a better idea to feign ignorance, even half-heartedly, than to admit defeat right away.

“Oh, c’mon.  I know you know.”  See?  “Well,” she added, sighing dramatically, “I guess I’ll have to score somewhere else tonight!”  She sounded so tragic that I couldn’t help but laugh outright.  She grinned back and we steered the conversation towards a safer topic, or at least one I could discuss without paying much attention to, indeed, without thinking about anything remotely related to.  Needless to say I don’t remember what it was.  One sentence kept running through my head.  “You’re hot for him, aren’t you?”   Impossible.  I was not… not gay.  Was I?  No way.  And so on.  By the time the band was back onstage, I had not yet come to a solution, but then he was back in sight and I once again lost the ability to form a coherent thought pertaining to anything else.  This time, however, he spoke to us.

“Hey, thanks for comin’ out,” he began, favouring us with a shy smile.  “I, uh, meant to talk to you guys earlier, but one song just sorta blended into another, you know how it is, and far be it from me to interrupt the flow.”  He smiled again.  I couldn’t help but notice that he spoke like he sang, softly and sort of running his words together so that they poured into your mind, like molasses spilling thickly from a jar.  “Anyways,” he continued, “I know y’all don’t really wanna hear me talk.”  Wrongful assumption.  I was on the verge of thorough hypnosis after three sentences.  “So, on with the show, huh?” 

You’d think I would have been better prepared, having already experienced their music, his voice, and having gotten over the initial shock, but I was transported just as completely.  There was no doubt in my mind that this was some of the most beautiful music I had heard, or would hear, in a long time.  So imagine my dismay when the dense fog it had created around me suddenly dissipated, carried away on the wind produced by all the clapping hands.  The young vocalist-cum-saxophone player addressed us once again.

“Sorry to break in like this,” he said, smiling apologetically, “but I wanted to take the opportunity to shamelessly advertise our album, called A Rake and a Rogue, which you can purchase at the back of the pub for the paltry sum of fifteen dollars.  All the songs we’ve played so far can be found on the album.  However, for our last song, we’re going to do something different.  I’m sure you all know this song, but here’s our rendition of it.  This is The Look of Love.”  With that, he gave a slight nod to the pianist, who immediately began working her magic.  I, on the other hand, wasn’t paying much attention.  At the words ‘last song’, a vague sort of panic had seized me, and fighting it back required more effort than I’d care to admit.  Suffice it to say, I got myself back under control and tuned back in, not wanting to miss this last succulent morsel of musical mastery. 

Lucky for me that I did.  As I gazed at him with what must have been an embarrassing look of groupie-like adoration on my face, I finally understood what the original author had meant by those words.  He was the incarnation of that concept, ‘the look of love’ made flesh.  But what he was in love with, I couldn’t tell.  The music?  Could be, God knew the rest of us were.  The attention?  Maybe, attention being the best friend of anyone aspiring to be anything.  I unexpectedly felt an overwhelming desire to ask him.  I wanted to know what he loved, and what it took to deserve his affection.  Not that I wanted it, I quickly amended, mere curiosity.  Suddenly frustrated at myself, I pushed all these thoughts away and focused again on the music.  From having heard and enjoyed previous versions of this song, I knew that it was nearly done.  And I had all but missed it, indulging as always in trivial mental ramblings.  Why couldn’t I just turn my thoughts off and give myself over to the beauty, the purity of this music?  There would be plenty of time afterwards for analysing and rationalizing, so why couldn’t I stop obsessing and…  There I went again.  But this time it really was over.  The last few strains of tinkling piano were dying their melodious deaths in the air above our heads.  A crushing disappointment overcame me.  Numbly, I sat gripping my empty glass as the band bade farewell to its eager audience and departed.  I stared blankly at the vacant stage for a few eternities, starting when Libby’s hand on my arm brought me back to reality.  She leaned over and asked me if I would kindly refill our drinks.  “I think you might need another stiff one,” she said, attempting vainly to keep her smile in check.  I nodded mutely and made my way to the bar, instinctively avoiding the many tables and their occupants, most of whom couldn’t have walked a straight line to save their lives.  I leaned against the counter and waited for the harried bartender, a girl I vaguely recognized from some of my classes, to notice me.