Aaron Gilson is a student.
I had seen his type many times before. He hung out in coffee shops where he ordered bitter lattes with curdled milk. He sat on the edge of the room at a small round table and sipped his overcooked resemblance of a latte while waiting for a familiar face to sit down next to him. It was in his own songs, the ones he wrote between each drag of his cigarette, that he found fulfillment. I listened to them in my head, measuring the choruses against my own ideas of life and happiness, and pulled my overcoat closer.
Her voice belonged to a siren. It shackled me with awe as she sang while cleaning the dishes and my eyes locked to her hips as she swayed to the rhythm of her own tune and glided about the room. Some evenings she would sing while she played her father's guitar. Having long since ceased singing to me, she sang to sing, often wandering through her past one bridge at time. As I sat across the room pretending to read, nonchalantly distancing myself from reminders of my artistic inadequacy, I listened to her songs, wondering who she wrote them for.