Title:Extraordinary Author:Steph Genre:FLUFFFFF Rating:PG Pairings?:Me / Matt...loosely Disclaimer:Don't know the boy...just have a deep appreciation Author's Notes: This was a creative writing assignment I did awhile back. Loosely Muse based. Enjoy! Feedback is Love.
PART A
Extraordinary. I always thought that the only part of my life that was extraordinary was him. I never claimed to be anything more than a girl with her worries and passions all mixed in her head. Always running to or from something. Never able to stand still. Now he was in my world and I wanted nothing more to be able to freeze time. "So, what do you reckon? You going to cry tomorrow?" he asked in his irresistible southern English drawl, devilish smile creeping onto his lips. "I'm thinking about it." Tomorrow. He was leaving tomorrow. Leaving my arms and flying into the arms of his legions of fans. The people that gathered night after night, year after year, the people that sing the words that he has written. The phrases that were born in his mind. We had spent all day packing, doing laundry, food shopping, the so called normal things that couples do. I never usually think about them as anything but normal until it comes time for him to go on tour. The clothes I fold are designer, made with him in mind. The outfits we pack are the outfits he'd wear on stage, in front of thousands of people. The food we bought we wouldn't eat together. Days like today I forget to see him as my boyfriend, I see him as everyone else does, as a star. His bags sit next to the front door now. Waiting to be loaded onto a plane, flown somewhere exotic. I try hard not to think of sharing him. I selfishly wish that I could be at his side at every gig. Every photo shoot and interview. I know that there arent many people who understand how I let him go, if I worry. If I wonder. It would be a lie to say that I dont, but I feel trust in his touch. Devotion in his voice. No matter how often he leaves our home, watching him go never gets any easier. Watching him return never gets less sweet. That first glimpse of his smile as he walks down the airport terminal breathes life back into me. The first kiss he gives me when we reach each other feels like home. The way he holds my hand on the way to our car speaks of possession. Im his and he is mine. And when we finally get home, he's simply the man I love. He wears t-shirts from his university, second hand jeans, and shoes he bought around the corner. He makes horrible coffee and cooks wonderful eggs. He gets up early and reads the paper, warms a spot for me on the couch when we watch TV. He holds me in his arms, asks me the questions in his crossword. Leaves the seat up. And nobody knows this but me.
We sat on the sill of our open window. Our window, that will spread sunshine into our bedroom in the morning. The window we would smoke cigarettes out at night. I'd seen him write songs there. I'd seen him look at the world outside, seeing past the gray London sky while fiddling with his guitar, turning words into lyrics into singles that had come to play on the radio. He had written songs that won awards at that window. He'd never know it because I'd never tell him, but sleeping in a room all alone with that window made me feel small. Insignificant. He was gone and the window was still there. The window where the most I'd ever written was a thank you card. The rays of inspiration still shone through it, but I could never grasp them. Not like him. At that window now we were just sitting. Talking. My head on his shoulder. The great rockstar and his regular, 9 to 5 girlfriend. His hands stroke my back, my arm. His long fingers twist through my hair. Fingers that create opuses on the grand piano that lives in our lounge, fingers callused from the strings of his guitar. He kisses the top of my head. I shiver as we look out at the sky, void of clouds, filled with stars. While he's there with me, we are the only two people in the universe. "Chilly love? Time to go inside," he starts to back into our room but I stop him. "No, I'm fine. Let's just sit awhile longer."He readjusts himself next to me and wraps both arms around me as I do to him, leaning deeper into his chest. His chin rests on my head.
We met in a bookstore. He wasn't a rockstar that day, although the world knew his name. He was just a boy looking for a good novel to read. He stood behind me in line. I had had too bad a day to notice him at first, too wrapped up in my own stress to see that anyone had noticed him. Up at the till the cashier rang up my books, £13.01. Ninety nine p in change was not something I looked forward to and rustled through my change purse looking for a copper coin. "I got it," a voice from behind me said. I swished my head around, nearly whacking him with my ponytail. "Thank you," I said, all at once realizing who he was. "thanks so much." "Not a problem," he replied, kindness in his voice and smile. Sitting a few minutes later in the bookstore cafe, I heard the same voice asking a question that seemed to be directed at me. I looked up from the hot coffee in front of me and saw the smile again. "This chair wouldn't happen to cost a penny?" he asked, a charming request I thought to exist only in movies. "Take it and we're even," I answer back, thankful for my quick wit. I looked back down at my coffee. I swear to this day that I had no belief that he would sit with me, only that he would drag the chair across the room to sit with more important people. But his voice sounded again and when I looked across from me, there he sat, reaching out his hand to me, "I'm Matt." God only knows why he sat with me. Why he struck up a conversation with me. Only god, and him; which to a great many people, are one and the same. The plot of a fairy tale was laid out in front of me and that conversation and coffee turned into conversation and dinner. Then conversation and a movie. A trip to the Tate Modern. Walks along the Themes at night. A pub with his mates. A club with mine. All the while letting our thoughts stream out of our mouths, talking about the mundane, the beautiful, the philosophical. Fear. Arsenal football. Music and literature. Death and afterlife. The future and love. The past and heartbreak.Two years, one album and a posh London home later, the fairy tale still hasn't ended, and every single part of me hopes it never will. "What do you reckon?" I ask, looking up at him, "Are you going to miss me?" He didn't answer for a moment. He just stared at me. Stared into me. With those crystal blue eyes, the eyes that were the topic of many a message board, many a young girls dream, with those eyes he looked into my heart. "You ask that like I have a choice," he said, opening his heart to me through his gaze, "I will always miss you." And as I looked into those eyes I finally realized, I wasn't extraordinary because I was with him, he was with me because I am extraordinary.
Wow, quite impressive there steph. I must say you've got a very nice style, your syntax and diction were nigh perfect for the piece.
"I am his and he is mine."
Had to be my favourite bit throughout, nice work for vague shippingness...
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"I have always had delusions that what I see isn’t real. That my eyes deceive me. That I’m lying to myself. I’ve never had much proof, just a deep resonance in my heart and bones that there is a perpetual motion machine perpetually blowing smoke up everyone’s ass, perpetually causing a genuine and spiteful sense of will full ignorance.
No proof though. Just a hunch."
