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So in theory, she’s just like any other young woman you might see browsing in a bookshop, or standing in line at a cafe. Nothing world-ending about her at all.
Except there’s something about her…
Back in June, Carmen stepped off that crew bus with mussed hair and flushed cheeks, clearly emerging from a long nap with her crew shirt label stuck up through her collar. She hopped off the bottom step, stifling a yawn, and after a single glance… I might as well have face-planted on the concrete.
I was done. Ruined for every other woman in existence.
Carmen.
Fuck. I should really let her go.
If I were a good man, I definitely would. But then a good man wouldn’t have fucking stared at her all summer, would he? He wouldn’t have dreamed of her, feverish and hungry every night, and woken with her name on his lips.
Or followed her when she slipped out of the venues to get coffee.
Or memorized all her hotel room numbers, walking past them in the middle of the night.
Or obsessed over every single tiny detail about her.
Yeah. It’s been months since I thought of myself as a good man. That ship has well and truly sailed.
* * *
Carmen’s flight is due to land just after dawn. I linger in the airport coffee shop, downing drink after drink, my hands getting shaky from the caffeine as I wait.
Or maybe it’s not the caffeine that makes my fingers tremble. Maybe it’s because I know she’s getting nearer.
It was torture flying across an ocean last night without her, leaving her so far behind. But I wanted to go ahead so that I could witness this moment: Carmen setting foot on American soil once again, coming home after so long away.
Is she pleased to be back? Relieved? Deflated? Is she excited for what comes next, or is she in mourning for the friends she made over the summer? I’d give anything to read that girl’s mind.
My thumbnail scrapes at my coffee sleeve, peeling back a corner of cardboard, and a melody drifts through my brain as I wait. I’ve written more music in the last few months than in the five years prior.
It’s all Carmen. She’s my muse.
My muse; my obsession; the newfound reason I breathe. It’s all very dramatic, but it’s true.
For the record, I considered letting her go after the Run Along Ruby tour ended. Idid. But then I overheard her telling one of the stage crew about her flight home, and how she was feeling lost and unsure about what to do next, how there was no one waiting for her here, and it’s like I booked my own flight in a trance. I blinked, and ten minutes had passed, and the confirmation email pinged into my inbox.
I was never really going to walk away, was I?
Flight 204 from Geneva is delayed by two hours…
The airport announcements fade into a low hum, all blurring together in the background. Carmen’s flight from Lisbon is on time, so I don’t care.
Will she have eaten breakfast? Drunk enough water overnight? Probably not. If I could, I’d protect Carmen from every inconvenience and irritation in existence—especially plane food.
My chair creaks as I shift in place, my limbs stiff from my own long flight. I haven’t slept; have barely eaten. I’ve been too agitated, too on edge from being this far away from Carmen.
I feel like death warmed over, but I don’t care. I’m not leaving this airport until I’ve seen her.
The intercom crackles, another fuzzy announcement making my head throb as it echoes around arrivals, but this time I exhale and push to my feet.
My last mouthful of coffee is lukewarm.
Her plane has landed. It’s time.
* * *
