Don't cry, just laugh

His name was Ed and he sang in a grunge band. He would touch his lips to the microphone and whisper his words. The girls all screamed. The guys all nodded their heads in approval.

The first time I heard his voice, he was yelling out "Help me! Help me!" I jerked my head toward the sound, confused, kind of angry. I was in the woman's restroom washing my hands. Breathing deep. Trying to ignore the fact that I wanted to be anywhere else but this dirty club with music I didn't like.

"Please! Help!" His voice was muffled.

It was then that I heard the giggles. The girls saying "Shhh." I could picture them surrounding him in the stall, with tight black skirts and stripper heels. Deep red lipstick. Sultry eyes. Achieving a sexiness I secretly wanted to be able to have. I ducked my head down and wiped my wet hands on my jeans.

I almost just turned and left. He was probably enjoying it. Pretending he didn't want them all over him. Playing the game I never learned how to play. I made my decision. I touched the dark green door, decorated with artistically vulgar graffiti, but then I immediately turned back.

"Don't. Don't go. Please. Help me." He sounded desperate. In pain. Like he actually needed my help.

I made another decision, fast, before I could change my mind, and banged into the stall door. The bitches hadn't even locked it. I pushed their astonished faces out of the way. Grabbed his hand and ran out.

Ran until I was out in the cold air, standing in the middle of the street, out of that loud place altogether. We were still holding hands. I dropped his and looked the other way. I was embarrassed, shy, nervous. The girls still had his shirt.

"I... well, thanks." That was him. He seemed nervous, too. He seemed... nice. Genuinely thankful. I felt like a jerk for thinking he was some over-confident, conceited, dick.

I turned my face to look at his. He was looking at me. We made eye contact. I burst out laughing. I couldn't stop. I was bent over, clutching my stomach.


Two people standing in the street. The guy is wearing leather pants and no shirt, no shoes. He's dark: dark eyes, dark hair, dark demeanor. He has his hands in his pockets and is staring at the girl. The girl is bright: blonde, pale, icy blue eyes. She's wearing old, ripped jeans and a white, lacy shirt. Her straw hat has fallen off her head and lies between them. She's laughing and doesn't seem to be stopping.

If you could see them how they see themselves, you would know that he thinks he's uninteresting and she thinks she's ordinary.

The girl stands up, her laughter stops. She brushes herself off and puts up her hand in a wave.

"I'm Blaise."

"I'm Ed."

And then they're both laughing, in the middle of a dark and silent street. All alone but together.

But if you were there with them, and listened hard, you would have heard a buzzing. A happy, serendipitous hum. They met by chance.

It could have been another girl standing there washing her hands in the bathroom.

But it wasn't.