Ridge: I guess you could say I’m having a bad case of writer’s block. Which is why I really, really wish you would just send me the lyrics you sing while I’m playing. Even if you think they’re stupid, I want to read them. You somehow know every single song I play, even though I’ve never played them for anyone except when I practice out here.
How does he know I know all his songs? I bring a hand up to my cheek when I feel it flush, knowing he’s been watching me a lot longer than I initially thought. I swear, I have to be the most unintuitive person in this entire world. I glance up at him and he’s continuing with another text, so I look back to my phone and wait for it.
Ridge: I can see it in the way your whole body responds to the guitar. You tap your feet, you move your head. And I’ve even tried to test you by slowing down the song every once in a while to see if you would notice, and you always do. Your body stops responding when I change something up. So just by watching you, I can tell you have an ear for music. And since you sing in the shower, it probably means you’re an okay singer. Which also means that maybe there’s a chance you have a talent for writing lyrics. So, Sydney, I want to know what your lyrics are.
I’m still reading when another text comes through.
Ridge: Please. I’m desperate.
I inhale a deep breath, wishing more than anything that this conversation had never started. I don’t know how in the hell he can come to all these conclusions without my ever having noticed him watching me. In a way, it eases my embarrassment over the fact that he saw me watching him. But now that he wants to know what lyrics I made up, I’m embarrassed for an entirely different reason. I do sing, but not well enough to do anything with it professionally. My passion is mostly for music itself, not at all for performing it. And as much as I do love writing lyrics, I’ve never shared anything I’ve written. It seems too intimate. I’d almost rather he had sent me a vulgar, flirtatious come-on.
I jump when my phone vibrates again.
Ridge: Okay, we’ll make a deal. Pick one song of mine, and send me the lyrics to just that one song. Then I’ll leave you alone. Especially if they’re stupid.
I laugh. And cringe. He’s not going to let up. I’m going to have to change my number.
Ridge: I know your phone number now, Sydney. I’m not giving up until you send me lyrics to at least one song.
Jesus. He’s not going away.
Ridge: And I also know where you live. I’m not above begging on my knees at your front door.
Ugh!
Me: Fine. Stop with the creepy threats. One song. But I’ll have to write the lyrics down while you play it first, because I’ve never written them out before.
Ridge: Deal. Which song? I’ll play it right now.
Me: How would I tell you which song, Ridge? I don’t know the names of any of them.
Ridge: Yeah, me, neither. Hold up your hand when I get to the one you want me to play.
He puts down his phone and picks up his guitar, then begins playing one of the songs. It’s not the one I want him to play, though, so I shake my head. He switches to another song, and I continue to shake my head until the familiar chords to one of my favorites meets my ears. I hold up my hand, and he grins, then starts the song over from the beginning. I pull my notebook in front of me and pick up my pen, then begin to write down the lyrics I’ve put to it.
He has to play the song three times before I finally get them all out. It’s almost dark now, and it’s hard to see, so I pick up my phone.
Me: It’s too dark to read. I’ll go inside and text them to you, but you have to promise you’ll never ask me to do this again.
The light from his phone illuminates his smile, and he nods at me, then picks up his guitar and walks back inside his apartment.