play for me

I was lying down for the nth time today, nursing one of many consecutive headaches, when I heard a large knock on our thirteenth century door.

I peered my head out to see my beau, clad in a chef’s top and horrible white clogs he has to wear in the kitchen, a grin on his face and a toothpick in his mouth. “Come, come!” He waved me out, a smile playing on his lips.

I ran down the stairs and out the door, to find him standing there on the street with a guitar. All I could think was I don’t deserve this. It felt like I was watching a scene out the film of my life. I'm fairly unfamiliar with gestures of this sort, and it hit me hard. He told me he’d written me a song, and started to run his fingers along the body of the guitar and play for me. He sang English lyrics with a strong French accent, and beat his guitar with a passion. I sat myself on the cobble stone streets, trying to grasp what was taking place. Trying to grasp the size of his heart, the honesty of his words and the look in his eyes. Afterwards I made him sing in French, and his voice became even more lyrical, the words making sense even when I couldn’t understand them. I felt my eyes water, and knew there was nothing I could say to describe how I was feeling.

I’ve always said that the way to my heart is through singing with an acoustic guitar. Something about this music brings me to my knees. With the simplicity of a sole acoustic guitar, the lyrics are much more powerful, the singer’s voice another instrument. I’ve had plans to marry Ben Harper for years now due to his heart aching lyrics, beautiful singing voice and power over of the guitar. But he’s getting old, and this one will do.

In he past week I’ve kept on telling him he had to play for me. That I wanted to hear him sing. I told this to one guy I dated for months, and never heard the sound of his guitar or his voice. He never played for me. He never showed up on time. He never showed me what it felt like to feel loved so openly. We spoke the same language, but never completely understood each other. And here I am, sitting in this medieval village, stone houses lit by sunshine, and a tall dark handsome French man singing his heart out to me.

He is singing to me, even when I spent the night with my head out the window, sick from Gin and Absinthe-that deviled green fairy-and his hand on my back. I had tears rolling down my cheeks, my hair disheveled and my emotions a mess. I don’t throw up often, and find it a really draining, really emotional process. I feel as if I’m up against my body; that I’m mistreating it and abusing it. He was patient. In the morning I found out he had been sick as well. We made sarcastic jokes about how romantic to be sick together, and he left early for work with his head pounding.

He doesn’t deserve head games, and I’m making an effort not to play them. I’m used to only falling for those who treat me like I’m less than I am, that confuse me, and that always stay just out of my reach. I’m trying to change this, trying to feel with my heart rather than my head. I worry I can’t give him a portion of what he gives to me, that I can never feel as much for him as he deserves. But he’s singing to me. He may know how to work his way into my heart without the abuse. This is a song that I don’t want to end, not yet.