Page 48 of Serenade Me

I nod, returning his look.

“I got it,” I tell him.

And I do. Get it. Whether I like it or not.

***

“Whose bright idea was it to take the train?” Sebastian grumbles the next morning at 7 a.m. as we walk down the long train platform at Gare de Lyon to get to our carriage.

“Yours, fartbreath.” Brad reminds him, pulling his shirt collar up around his neck. “Oooh, vous must see se country-side on ze train, eet ees soo bootifoool,” he continues, imitating Sebastian’s French accent.

“Well it is. Just not at 7 a.m. Why don’t we ever leave at 1 a.m. when I am most awake?”

“Yeah, I love looking at the view out of the train window after midnight,” Jez taunts him.

“We’re here. Stop complaining. People will think we are over-privileged rock stars who can’t wipe our own asses,” I tell them, helping Anca onto the steep step of the train.

It’s a three-hour train ride to Lyon, and while the view for first hour or so is gray train tracks, gray train tracks, and more gray train tracks, once the city opens up into countryside, it really is quite lovely.

We spread out over three carriages and take turns wandering around between them, annoying each other. Jez and Brad never really were the best at sitting in one spot for too long.

Anca sits by the window in one carriage, earphones firmly planted in her ears, her stockinged feet up on the opposite seat bench, an unopened journal sitting in her lap.

I stand by the carriage door and take a mental picture.

Her hair is loosely bundled into a wild knot, fine wisps framing her face and neck. Her red cotton knee length dress is matched with a blue woollen cardigan and black stockings. The outfit is colourful, sweet and slightly quirky, just like she is. The morning sun reflects in her eyes which in turn are reflected back onto the dusty train window. And it looks like her reflection is staring at me, as I stare back at her.

In my mind, I can hear our music that first day, playing The Power of Love together.

Together with this image of her, it’s art in motion. She is art. Living, breathing. Breathtaking.

“Hi,” I say, reluctantly, not wanting to shatter the moment.

She doesn’t turn and just keeps staring at the fields of muddied crops.

I go over and sink onto the tattered leather seat next to her, tugging gently on her ear phones.

“Hey, little girl lost,” I say and she smiles, not turning to me. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really. If you were Brad staring so intently out the window, I’d say he was thinking of a double cheeseburger. You? It’s probably something a little deeper.”

“A triple cheeseburger?”

“There you go.”

“No, I was just… just thinking about last night’s concert.”

“What about it?”

“I was thinking… I was thinking how easy it was. How I had a little problem getting started but then I got through it.”

“You more than got through it, you crushed it,” I bump her with my shoulder.

The corners of her mouth twitch, like a tiny little feather is tickling them, “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. You did.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. When I pull away she doesn’t let me, her fingers stiffen and take hold of mine.