Losing Touch

I haven't attended one of your concerts in twenty years. Before I even reach my seat, I know that was a mistake. Colors pulse in time to beats. The air is perfumed with strawberries and mint, charged with just enough additive to turn your audience's excitement into thrill. And there you stand at the head of it all, looking a year older if that, your lyrics mixing with laughter.

Ever since scientists learned to slow aging from a sprint to a crawl, people have generally been more relaxed. Why not? There's more time to think, more time to choose, more time to live.

But not you. You pace the stage with frantic energy, and I can hear your voice strain.

It's an hour before your show ends, and another half before the crowd clears out. Even then, it's only after you promise to follow with autographs and party favors. You watch them file out with a cocked smile. You've got a woman clinging to either arm. I know they're part of your staff, though, when they have to guide you to the stage's edge so you can sit. You're still laughing a little as you totter.

I step down the aisle and clear my throat. “It's been too long.”

Your head jerks up. There's a comet painted on your left temple, its fiery tail streaking over both eyes. I can still see dark circles beneath.

“It's been forever!” You lean forward. “What do you think, Beaut? Did you love it?”

“You've changed your style a lot,” I say carefully.

“Course I have!” You wiggle your eyebrows, making them squirm like strawberry blond caterpillars. “I'm living in silent film, and it's my job to pump it full of sound! But what about you?” There's a moment of hesitation. “They say your life is going very well.”

“It is. Sorry, you shouldn't have to go off secondhand sources.” I place a hand on the stage. “May I?”

You scoot over- never mind that there's a hundred feet of space- and shoo your assistants away. I feel you straighten when my shoulder brushes yours.

“Can we talk?”

“Nope. Now that we're alone, I'm going to sit here and stare at you until the floor melts.”

I give you a shove. “Really talk. C'mon, Tom.” My eyes meet yours. “Right now, I need you to tell me how you're doing.”

“Well… What do you want to know?”

I tilt my head. “Have you been visiting your mother?”

“Of course.” Now your smile is wearing, spreading thin. “No changes there, but I can't just leave her.”

“So she's still refusing treatment?”

You fidget. I see your eyes dart away, and I touch your knee. “Hey. You know she'd be doing a lot better if she would let people help her, don't you? You should start early.”

You look like you've been caught doing something wrong. “Sometimes,” you say slowly, “You help me.”

My breath catches.

You're suddenly fascinated with the grain of the stage. “Two weeks ago, I was having… trouble. You told me everything would be alright. You said one day I'll wish, and the thunder clouds will vanish.” You chuckle. “I knew it wasn't actually you, obviously. I'm not so bad yet.”

I swallow. “I'm sorry. When did you find out?”

A shrug. “My diagnosis was fifteen years ago. Big surprise, right?” At my stare, you knock your arm into mine. “It's not your fault I couldn't be bothered to write until last week.”

“I should have checked in sooner.”

“We both should have.”

The two of us fall into silence. The strawberry scent is less cloying, and I wonder whether you even smell it anymore. After a while, I squeeze your hand. “Do you still write songs for her?”

“Heh. Nothing she'll ever hear.”

My heart drops.

I can still remember you at six, hanging off her elbow until she put her work down to listen properly. Bluebirds, carrot cake- you would string all her favorite things together when she was frazzled. She was tired, but she was so proud. Anyone could see it.

I remember you at nineteen, going very still as she screamed for you to stop broadcasting her thoughts to the world. She railed against your betrayal. Then she withdrew, convinced that world was coming to get her. We took the music with us when we left.

“Sing for me.”

My words startle us both. Sheepish, I offer you a smile. “Go on. I'll listen for her.”

The hesitation is back. Beneath the scarves and glitter, I catch a glimpse of the person I'm familiar with. I grab his hand and hold it firmly.

You bow your head, eyes closed.

“All the nightmares came today. They took your hand, led you away. Last night, they loved you better than I could...”

This song is slow and faltering. By the time you break off at the second verse, it's all I can do to wrap my arms around you.

When you speak again, your voice is small. “I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do,” you say.

I look up. “You're going to let people help you, starting with me.” Pausing, I unclip one of your scarves and hand it back. “And you're going to clean your face while I tell your groupies to shove off. Your comet is running.”

You touch the orange trails. “Oh. It is.”

“Is there anything you want me to say?”

You start to shake your head, then stop. Dramatically, you put the back of your hand to your forehead. “Say I need creative space. Tell them I''m a dreaming kind of guy, and I'm sinking in the quicksand of my thought. They'll love that.”

“Yeah, they probably will.” I smile and hop down. “Wait here, and I'll come un-sink you.” It isn't until I'm at the exit, where I'm sure you think I'm out of earshot, that I hear you sigh.

“But I've got things inside my head that even I can't face.”