after yesterday's first few paragraphs of my short story, I just couldn't leave you all hanging. So, here is the second of four parts of this week's fiction. Be fully prepared for recipes and pictures of prancing about the yard next week, but make sure you read the earlier part of this story before diving headlong into the middle. Enjoy!
Ginny and William-Butler arrived and set to work. There was a small apartment to furnish and jobs to go to, settling in to a long time. Then the sense of accomplishment wore off and both began looking for more. Unfortunately, WB, as he was then called by friend and stranger alike, has a more than modest talent at the guitar and those old instruments still played around fires on the beach, back home. When the malaise arrived, it hit WB first, because so many of their similarly malcontent friends suggested to him that he was ever so much better than a simple desk job, that his talent had to lie somewhere, anywhere, other than in writing society news for the newspaper. He had a way with strings and with words they consistently reminded him, and so, off he went to the bars and those parties he still attended for work, with his business card and his notebook which was soon filled with lyric fragments and chords and playing times, not who was dating whom, and who had been seen at what charity event. Not so much time passed that he began playing in bars and dance joints, open mic nights and with musicians in the basements of bars.
Ginny often went with him, if only because the rowdiest crowd could be calmed by the presence of a woman, or the dullest encouraged by her beauty, which was then in its finest blossom. The turning point for both of them came one evening, when the crowd was dull but restless. Ginny had been sitting in the corner that Friday, waiting and watching, humming along under her breath and sipping a bit of whisky the region was famous for. There was a good music scene in this city, in fact, it was one of the reasons people moved there, to be discovered and to find that elusive glory that would allow them to return home, unbowed and undaunted. Too used to being part of something, and particularly lonesome for those evenings on the Gulf with driftwood fires in the mist and singing, Genevieve had begun wishing she could sing with WB instead of just being the good partner she was, on the sidelines.
It was during one of the old songs that she, aided by some rye courage, walked up to WB and joined in, and the harmony was fine. Her lilting voice, warmed by the drink, and intensified with WB’s rich depths brought down the house. That old feeling, the one she has subscribed to faith and church, welled up in her again, but it was only the music, finally free and pure and resonating through that dingy bar with its patrons only intoxicated by emotion, and a little alcohol. Together they finished the set and walked out into the street, cooled by winter temperatures but flush with what finally felt like love between the two of them.
It was the beginning of the grand times for both Genevieve and WB. They were successful enough to keep busy and be happy, but never enough to feel content, nor for that malaise to creep back into their minds. They considered themselves in love during this time, they did. There was travel, and enough success for both to quit the regular jobs that had paid the bills for so long and they lived their lives as itinerant musicians, always with a place to perform, and enough money to eat and sleep and drink a bit, but never enough to save. Small city critics were pleased, and it was right about the time they were becoming popular enough for some corporate interest, on the little, independent labels, that everything began to predictably unravel.
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