Falling Under (Falling 3)

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

I sigh, close my eyes so her hot hungry eyes don’t see so deep into me. “I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to stop at just…touching your back. Won’t want to, won’t be able to.”

“So don’t.”

“You don’t mean that.”

She curls her fingers into my hair, leans in. “I’m a virgin, Oz.”

I laugh. “Yeah, sweetness. I know. And that’s why.”

“I’ve had opportunity. Choices. I decided not to. I waited.” She shifts forward, her hips closer to mine. “Just because I waited didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I did want to. I do want to. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But I wanted it to be with the right guy. To mean something. I know it’s not always, like, true love the first time. I’m not naive. And I know…I know it’ll hurt. And I know it will probably be different than I’m imagining. But I want it. And Oz?” She leans in and kisses me, so hot and so hard and so hungry, clutching me to her and crushing our bodies together, kissing me with such frenzy and such desperate abandon that I feel myself going hard, and I know she feels that, too. “I want it with you.”

SIX: Performances and Gestures and Ghosts

Colt

The open mic night is kind of dumb. I mean, most of the kids just aren’t talented. It feels like bad karaoke, only no one is drunk. There are a few people, aside from Kylie and Oz, who have a modicum of talent. One kid did a pretty decent cover of Jack Johnson, and the rest is just blah. Shitty covers of crappy songs. So, by the time Oz and Kylie go on, near the very end, I’m antsy, irritated, and ready to go home. The coffee shop is packed, the tables and chairs pushed back to make a small circle of space to one side of the counter where the baristas continue to make drinks, slamming the espresso wand, steaming milk, making the blender whir.

The second-to-last act finishes butchering U2, and Kylie and Oz take their place in the center of the open area. Oz is holding Kylie’s black Yamaha by the neck, and a beat-up black and tan Stratocaster is slung by the strap behind his back. There’s a tiny black upright piano that someone shoved into the corner, and Kylie slides onto the bench.

I’ve heard them practicing in the basement over the last couple of weeks, and I have a feeling they’re about to slay it.

Kylie pulls the mic stand over to the piano, adjusts the arm so she can sing and play at the same time. Oz, meanwhile, drags a stool and a mic stand and sits near Kylie, partially facing her and partially facing the audience. He leaves his electric guitar hanging at his back and settles the acoustic on his knee, does some unplugged strumming and tuning.

Kylie glances at Oz, offers him a shaky smile, and takes a deep breath. Oz just nods at her as he plugs in, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, and this tiny excuse for a smile seems to reassure my nervous-looking daughter. “Hey, guys,” Kylie says. “I’m Kylie Calloway, and this is Oz Hyde. I hope you’ll like what we’ve got for you. We’re actually going to do two songs for you guys. As long as you don’t boo us off-stage first.”

She nods at Oz, who sucks in a deep breath, and then starts playing. It’s a slow, lilting melody, rolling like deep ocean waves. After a few beats, Kylie joins him on the piano, playing the same melody but with piano embellishments sliding above and below and weaving through Oz’s bass line. The crowd has gone silent, realizing they’re about to hear something good. Even the coffee shop employees have stopped working to listen. You can sense it, smell it, feel it. You can see it in the way Oz plays the acoustic guitar with easy skill, hear it in the rising beauty of Kylie’s piano.

And then Kylie starts singing:

“Watching this unfold, watching hours become moments

Become weeks become days,

It’s all a game, all a trick, hopeless despite my intents.

I’m watching you close and I’m lost in your maze

I can’t find my way, don’t have a map of your terrain.

I’m trying and I’m diving in, but I’m caught up in your pain,

I’m lost and I’m looking for you, but your secrets are a stain,

They leave a shadow on the clarity of what I feel.

Your secrets and the hidden scars

Are holes in your skin, but light shines through, bright as stars.”

Her piano goes muted, quiet, and Oz’s melody continues, dark and deep and slow. Then he sings, and I’m blown away. His voice isn’t…good, but it’s rough and mesmerizing, something raw and fascinating.

“You wish you knew me,

You wish you could see me,

Maybe you think a few kind words will free me.

But darling, they won’t.

Darling, they won’t.

Your eyes betray your fear,

You come close to me, draw near,

Afraid, maybe curious, maybe thinking you can save me.

But darling, you can’t.

Darling, you can’t.

Your world and mine,

They’re a million miles apart,

And baby, maybe you think you can bridge the gap,

But darling, you can’t.

Darling, you can’t.”

Oz lets the melody play out once more, and then strums three harsh, muted chords, a waiting beat, one-two-three, and then with a sudden crescendo, they’re playing together, full volume, their melodies intersecting and weaving and complementing. Together, then, they sing, each singing their own chorus, overlapping and competing and harmonizing:

“I want to know you—”

“Baby, you don’t—”

“There’s no darkness too dark, no scars too deep—”

“You can’t save me, darling you can’t, darling you can’t—”

“I’m not afraid of you, I’m strong enough, if only you’d let me try—”

“Darling, I can’t, darling, I can’t—”

“Let me love you, let me love you, let me let me let me love you—”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, darling I can’t, Darling you can’t—”

“Let me—”

“Darling, I can’t—”

“Let me please—”

“Darling, I can’t—”

This goes on, a musical argument, sung back and forth and back and forth, their voices rising in volume and intensity until they’re both shouting, pleading, singing exactly in unison, but singing different words. It’s an incredible performance. There’s an element of folk-style simplicity to the song, the way the notes themselves and the chords and the sequences aren’t complicated, but they’re haunting and compelling.