The beginning
Nov. 16th, 2009 03:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
indiana_jOn the night that we first met, you started it off by breaking Rob's (that greasy scumball my little sister had the dubious honor of calling her boyfriend) nose.
Emmy had called me, crying with broken sobs over a bad phone connection, and I had arrived with all the furious worry and intent that a seventeen year old big sister could muster. There had been whispered please for me to not to tell our parents, so I had come alone, with four red lights run and having left a number of other laws broken in my wake.
I had no eyes for you then, not with the cop cars and my fifteen year old sister crying around the bloodied lip as she threw herself at me. Not while I had to curl my too tall body around her like a second jacket, willing the world to leave her alone, as the cops wrestled Rob into the back of the police car. Blood had spattered the lower part of his face and painted his white shirt maroon in interesting patterns.
It was only later, when the police officer who looked a little like Grampa Jones was gently questioning Emmy, that I sat down next to you on the dirty curb outside the 7-11. The EMTs had checked out your hand and had deemed it sprained but not broken, though you cradled it like a father cradled his newborn child. With relief, amusement, shock, like you didn’t know what to do with it.
I had no idea who you were.
I had an idea of who you might be. You might be that man with the long, beautiful hands, who sat with sheet music scattered around him as if they were an afterthought. That man who had crossed a busy intersection to stop Rob from hurting Emmy even more than he already had. That man who had gotten into a fight with a stranger for the sake of another stranger.
Another time, another place, I would have noticed your crooked smile or your untamable hair or your sleepy eyes. Now my attention never wavered from your hand as I gently reached over and held the uninjured one between both of mine.
You looked at me then and smiled, held onto a stranger's trembling hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I didn't know who you were but I liked who you might have been. Later, when the EMTs, police and shaken little sisters were returned to my side, I told you I wanted to find out if I was right about who you might be.
"I'm just a music student," you said, a half smile on your face as we stood, still holding hands, as my sister attached herself to my other arm. "But you're welcome to figure that out for yourself."
I smiled for the first time since I got the call that made my knees buckle from fear and you squeezed my hand. It was reassuring, a hello and a see you later, all rolled into one simple motion.
After that, exchanging information was simply secondary, an unimportant thing to future, mutual discovery.
Emmy had called me, crying with broken sobs over a bad phone connection, and I had arrived with all the furious worry and intent that a seventeen year old big sister could muster. There had been whispered please for me to not to tell our parents, so I had come alone, with four red lights run and having left a number of other laws broken in my wake.
I had no eyes for you then, not with the cop cars and my fifteen year old sister crying around the bloodied lip as she threw herself at me. Not while I had to curl my too tall body around her like a second jacket, willing the world to leave her alone, as the cops wrestled Rob into the back of the police car. Blood had spattered the lower part of his face and painted his white shirt maroon in interesting patterns.
It was only later, when the police officer who looked a little like Grampa Jones was gently questioning Emmy, that I sat down next to you on the dirty curb outside the 7-11. The EMTs had checked out your hand and had deemed it sprained but not broken, though you cradled it like a father cradled his newborn child. With relief, amusement, shock, like you didn’t know what to do with it.
I had no idea who you were.
I had an idea of who you might be. You might be that man with the long, beautiful hands, who sat with sheet music scattered around him as if they were an afterthought. That man who had crossed a busy intersection to stop Rob from hurting Emmy even more than he already had. That man who had gotten into a fight with a stranger for the sake of another stranger.
Another time, another place, I would have noticed your crooked smile or your untamable hair or your sleepy eyes. Now my attention never wavered from your hand as I gently reached over and held the uninjured one between both of mine.
You looked at me then and smiled, held onto a stranger's trembling hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I didn't know who you were but I liked who you might have been. Later, when the EMTs, police and shaken little sisters were returned to my side, I told you I wanted to find out if I was right about who you might be.
"I'm just a music student," you said, a half smile on your face as we stood, still holding hands, as my sister attached herself to my other arm. "But you're welcome to figure that out for yourself."
I smiled for the first time since I got the call that made my knees buckle from fear and you squeezed my hand. It was reassuring, a hello and a see you later, all rolled into one simple motion.
After that, exchanging information was simply secondary, an unimportant thing to future, mutual discovery.