bob_dobalina

"just sing," i said as i pressed the capped end of a magic marker to the back of her neck. fairly certain that she thought i had a gun, i made sure not to hold it there too long for fear that she would realize that it was not a handgun that i captivated her attention with but in fact a writing implement. it was a rare moment of coordination and strength when i kicked in the door, firmly grabbed her shoulder, spun her around, and pressed her against the wall.
i had heard her sing many times as i descended or ascended the stairs in the apartment building, sometimes as she was warming up with scales and arpeggios and those fortunate but rare moments when the pipes were warm and her lungs filled with air were what i strained to listen to as i quieted my steps on the staircase.
live music is an integral part of my life but i couldn't seem to match the joy of listening to recordings in my solitude with the creative energy that a live performance yields. thoughts bounced around inside my head, gaining velocity with each ricochet until i resolved to break down the door of the faceless singer and make her sing for me and only me.
i had come to know her voice quite well in the 18 months of my living in the building. strong at the base but brittle at the top, almost like glass in that it is as likely to cut as it is to break. and through its flaws and uneven parts, allows you to see something clearer or entirely different and completely new.
she began, "my man don't love me, he treats me oh so bad." i was caught in a whirlpool of emotions. how could she have known that i loved lady day's "fine and mellow"?
her back still to me, head slightly bowed, i could see the muscles at the base of her neck tense. "treat me right, baby, and i won't go out no more," was her cry as her head shook slowly, left-right-left. i wanted nothing more than to be a horn player and let four soft notes fall to the floor with an "i'm so sor-ry."
she must have sensed me relaxing and probably knew the power her voice has, the power to strip you of your strength. so she turned and burried her fist into the pit of my stomach. i doubled over, gasping for air like a fish on dry land. my first thoughts were typical of those when a person is roused out of a moment of bliss by sharp pain, "she must not hate me otherwise she would've hit me in the balls."
i got pulled up by the hair on my head and found myself thrown against the very wall that i had made my captive face. her hand on my throat, i felt a dull ache followed by a fierce, searing agony that started at the bottom of my stomach and filled my rib cage. the sensation was unmistakeable, she does in fact hate me.
i tried to explain, my eyes pleading with hers, "i only wanted a song, something for only me." there wasn't a solution or liquid in the world that could douse the fire i saw.
i felt a sharp pain under my chin and felt warm blood soak the collar of my shirt, the wound from a knife that materialized in her hand. flames were all around me saying just one thing, "you fucked with the wrong girl."