He found himself wandering, driving slow, heading east, or south. He had it to do, but it didn’t feel like home. He was driving slow. He would rather be heading home, and that was the funny part.
He had watched her over the Festival, her smile, the way she gave it more than everything when she played or sang, how when she danced it was very subtle, but all of her moved and breathed and flowed like she was made of liquid, and that liquid was music.
He had gone over after a show with the excuse of telling her brother how he liked his playing, but really to say hello to her. She had somehow managed to tell him that the smile he so loved to see when he came in and they were playing, was for him, and that she had been watching him too. He had somehow managed to stay standing.
It had felt so comfortably complete. So different worlds, you know, so different and so the same.
Nashville demanded you be better at the art than you ever dreamed you could be. If you had the heart and could see past the hip hooks, love the gifted and the damned, you would find a few people of extraordinary talent, who were capable of extraordinary friendship. It was an amazing town, you could get things done there. You could grow.
But was it home? She had somehow reminded him of the heart of home, the heart the art was about. There was a difference.
He was wandering back to Nashville, driving slow, but would rather be driving fast, heading home.
Wasn’t it amazing what a simple conversation could get you to see. He would rather be learning to talk with her, or at least learning to earn what that evenings observations reminded him could be. That was, he guessed, what was happening.
Maybe she would show up with her brother and sister in-law at the show down the road he was playing in a few weeks. They could tell the people at the door he had invited them. Maybe he could smile at her from the stage, like the sun in spring, or a gentle rain after a dry spell.
Maybe her knees would go soft like his did.
Wasn’t that a sweet dream.