Words to Tie to Bricks Read Online Free Page A

are for a second, two, lost in the hubbub of drunkenness and noise, eyes fixed on her. You will not be able to look away.
    You will walk towards her. Your body will be suddenly unwieldy and clumsy; you will feel graceless, walking towards her, knowing that her shining dark eyes might at any moment be upon you. You
will mess with your hair, adjust your clothes, curse your inadequate frame and build and body. You will want to leave, to leave this dreamlike avenue of action unsullied; but she will look across
the room, tossing her hair gently to look out of the black mirror-like window, and you will be enthralled, and unable to do anything but move towards her.
    You will think she doesn’t see you. It will seem impossible that someone like her could ever have their eyes caught on someone like you.
    But she will speak to you.
    ‘Who are you?’ she will ask, softly, like you are alone together. Her voice will burn you to a crisp in the best way and you will take the last step towards her until your bodies are
feet from each other.
    You will know that it’s your name she wants, but it will feel like an invitation to turn your secrets out for her, and you will be willing, so willing.
    ‘Kit,’ you will say, and your throat will catch on it. You will be embarrassed, but not enough to move away.
    She will smile like you have told her a secret. ‘Kit,’ she will repeat, and her voice will make it worth owning. ‘Are you from around here?’
    The words will sound exotic and elegant in her voice. For a moment, you will forget where you live and what you have been doing with the last seventeen years of your life. You will blink once,
twice, in the silence.
    There will be noise all around you, general noise, movement and conversation and music, but you will not hear it.
    ‘Next door.’ Your voice will let you down; it will sound too much like falling short.
    She will be leaning against a battered brown piano pushed up against the wall. You will be grateful for it, because it will stretch her pale form along its length and make it exquisitely harder
to breathe.
    She will notice you looking. She will look down at the piano, generously assuming you are examining the golden curls of decoration on the piano face and not the way her dark blue dress tightens
at her waist and suggests hips and legs and other things hidden by the curtain of her dark shining hair. Your eyes will catch more than once on that hair; the occasional subtle wave, shining in the
not-light, almost close enough to touch.
    ‘Do you play?’ she will ask, her head tilting charmingly. You will be charmed.
    ‘A little,’ you will lie. No matter that you will have a piano stool perpetually overflowing sheet music. No matter that your hands – good for so little, too thin for sports,
too long for writing implements – will have worked for years to stretch so wide. You will not want to play for her; she will be too much, she will be more than you can imagine playing for, it
would be a concert in Carnegie Hall, playing in front of this girl.
    But her eyes will light up, and she will clasp her hands together in delight. ‘Play me something!’ she will demand, her smile warming you up like candlelight. ‘I can’t do
anything like that. Show me! Play for me!’
    You will shake your head. After all, she won’t know you at all. Poor playing is endearing when a close friend makes the mistake of showcasing it; strangers do not have such rapport. You
won’t want to risk it.
    But she will play dirty. She will look at you with sparkling eyes and move towards you and look into you and say ‘please?’ and you will fall to her because you will feel it
already.
    ‘What do you want to hear?’ you will ask. You will be frantically running through your repertoire, trying to find the perfect fit for this girl. You will want very badly to impress
her and have absolutely no idea how.
    ‘A song. Do you sing? You look like you sing. You should sing,’ she will say.