“You’re a songwriter?”
I swirl my drink again. “Songwriter and producer, but I don’t press the buttons. I don’t sit at the board with headphones twistin’ knobs like I’m God.”
Usually this is where the questions pile up,
but he’s sitting back, listening.
“I know where the strings should break.
“Where the drums should hold their breath.
“Where the synth needs to crawl up your spine before the chorus hits.
“I know how the song feels, I just don’t push the buttons to make the feeling real.
“I don’t care to be the machine,” I tell him.
“I just need someone who listens when I say,‘right there—that’s the moment the world should stop breathing.’”
He blows out a breath,
hand scraping through his hair,
jaw tight, eyes locked on mine.
“Jesus… My fuckin’ heart, Sonny.”
He’s not smiling anymore.
“Songwriter,” he repeats with the revelation.
“Course you are.
“Music’s where you put it all, isn’t it?
“All the shit bottled up inside you.
“The parts you don’t want anyone touchin’.”
His hand moves while he talks,
unable to help it.
“You bury it in songs,
“pretend it’s someone else’s pain.”
He stops, then looks at me.
As if he can’t do both?—
talk and look into my eyes?—
at the same time.
“It’s how you cry without anyone watching.”
And my mouth goes dry.
