If Only

Her fingers laced comfortably around the rim of the glass that she would drink from any second that passed soon. Her vision laid directly on the stage where he continued to play on his guitar in a lamentful way of comfort that only the two of them shared. They shared this bond only because of how she felt every note he played, every single beat that came out as a mere tune to others.

Even in the small café which was constricted with the aroma of cigarettes that had been smoked throughout the whole day, and the stench of alcohol that was very strong, she couldn't tear her eyes from him. He was the excuse she had to travel over roads and through towns, just to sit for hours so she could hear him play and see his face. Her usual table was the one in the far back corner of the café, where even if he tried to find her, he wouldn't be able to. It was the one place where she was safe from the eyes of others that could read her emotions as though she were a book, and define them as love.

In the confines of this dimly lit corner, she was allowed to sit back and close her eyes to his tune, permit the sound of his soft drumming on the guitar to flow through her body. In this corner she was reminded of why she boarded her car every Tuesday to drive out of state to a small town to hear him play songs, hoping in the recesses of her mind that he'd take the time to finally look past the people that sat in front of him and see her. That their eyes would meet for the first time while he played, and the love she felt for him would be returned, she would be whole for once.

Far more whole than she was now.

Her life was an empty illustration, with no colors to beautify it, or love to craft it into something magnificent. She was lifeless beyond this one day, no reason for her existence had been rectified as of yet, and wouldn't. That was why she loved him, this Benito Marcks that she'd never seen further than this day.

The one thing in life that had made her experience emotions such as hope or care; something rare for her, hardly considered.

With her eyes closed and the melody of his playing, soothing her nerves, a smile bloomed on her face. If her logical state of mind allowed her to float past her sitting at this table and listening to him, if it allowed her to imagine being with him everyday, she would be instantly grateful. Waking up to see him next to her in the same bed, kiss his lips with all the passion she could muster in her emotionally challenged mind. If it were so that she were the guitar he put so much of his heart into by running his fingers over the strings, she would love the feel of it. To be loved in return so easily by a person that cherished her qualities was what she wanted... She envied the guitar that was in his arms, wishing that it were her, wishing that it were her he played so fervently, any second of the day. She wished he'd hold her in his arms, and the same look of heart stopping content would be in his eyes. She wished he could be able to show her as much emotion as he would his music that she knew he composed himself.

Or possibly if she were his regular specimen of women that he found attractive, or men, she would be what he wanted. If her golden blonde hair was closer to the color of his, or her tanned skin wasn't as blushed around the cheeks as most women had to apply make-up on to get. If only she stood in more than she stood out; she wondered if he'd see her.

Her stumbling upon this cafe had been a coincidental happening two years ago after the heart breaking sight of her fiancé cheating on her.

The instant she'd entered the place to order a drink after blindly driving, she'd fallen in love with him. It had first been the invigorating way he played on his guitar and all of the passion he'd put into it, then when she'd returned another time, it had been something else that she'd noticed about him, soon it had been everything about him. But even then it wasn't enough to have him fall in love with her, because he didn't know she existed. She was just a woman in his mind; most likely, one that came to enjoy the drinks and entertainment he gave, when there was so much more to the reason than what lied on the surface.

So, acting out her customary ways that she'd almost made a tradition when she came to the café, she drank the last of her whiskey and left when he'd finished playing. The smile of the older woman next to the café that sold flowers completing her day and making it wonderful, she bought a red rose that was an exact replicate of the ones she'd bought in the past. A rose that was different, but smelled and appeared to be the same one. She walked to the back door and laid the rose by the door like she always did, then returned to her car.

By the time he would exit and retrieve the rose from the spot he always found it, to place it in his guitar case and look around for the person who'd left it, she would have returned to her common life of nothing that consumed her every being until next Tuesday.

In her mind, it was more secure to live a hurtful love and stay logical unlike with her fiancé, than to be hurt by love again. For that was why Bailey Rhodes chose to remain unnoticed; and if her wish did come true, she always questioned herself on what she would do.