Essays were always a bore. Typing them up is constant work.
And there I hear, some very romantic french music.
I said to myself, “No one in this ghastly neighborhood listens to French music”.
In disbelief I search around my hallways.
In shock I check the fourth floor.
In some giddiness that I might actually find a local music lover, I check the second and first floor.
No French music.
I go back into my apartment, and then I hear it again. My only explanation to this is that the music is coming from outside.
Right below my balcony, on the side of the street.
It had to be.
It is -2 degrees in Boston today, but I needed to know.
I thought to myself, “Maybe, maybe someone is playing this for me”.
Of course, it is always me, as with everyone else, it will always be them.
Vice versa to readers.
I wanted to know who this admirer was, I wanted to grasp every moment of this lovely French music.
I want to live a few freezing seconds in deep thought. Holding curious eyes with this stranger who plays lovely French music.
He has to be a sweetheart.
He has to be a man.
And then I stop.
It is not French music.
It’s not even coming from outside.
It’s actually coming from my school bag.
I was embarrassed to think I had an admirer who ventured out in this cold.
I was brought back to reality once I reached into my black tote bag with the words “CONSERVE”.
It peels off by the semester.
When I touched upon one headphone, I could feel the vibration of the music.
I could even feel my daring lover leaving.
I listen a bit more closely.
Quinn the Eskimo by Bob Dylan was my romantic admirer playing French music in the cold.
1071 songs on iTunes - 1 = a restless me and my lover.
Created: Jan 24, 2011Marianmnmarceau Document Media