On this Wednesday in November, when (if you try hard enough) you can still dodge Christmas music, comes the appropriate words GIVE, OBVIOUS and THANKS. I didn't go dark this time, but still enjoyed being creative.
Enjoy the season!
“Give a little bit. Give a little bit of your love, to me.”
Curly sang aloud, off key, bopping her auburn mop to the beat emanating into her head. Even though the melody was off, it was obvious by her jiggly nods that she was listening to the bastardized Goo Goo Dolls version of the song rather than Supertramp’s feel good classic.
She sat directly in front of him on his first, and hopefully last, Greyhound bus ride. Thirty years old, without a job, without prospects, without hope, and moving in with his parents. Ben was extremely bitter. The last thing he needed was to travel the one hundred some odd miles listening to an off-key head-bopper with horrible taste in music.
Silence. She stopped singing. Curly bent forward. Ben thought he heard a quiet “damn”. Ben let out a breath, one he hadn’t realized he held. Maybe her IPod ran out of juice... one could hope. Just as he settled back, turned his head to watch the passing scenery, she started again.
“Did you write the book of love....” she croaked. Curly’s debauchery of Madonna’s debauchery of Don McLean. Toes curling, fists clenching, teeth gnashing, Ben wished the bus would just crash already and speed him to hell rather than torture him with the soundtrack.
After an eternal four more minutes, she pulled out her earbuds. Ben heard the tinny whine but blessedly, he couldn’t make out the song. Curly turned around in her seat.
“Hey! What doos ‘paradox’ mean?” she asked with a lilt. Irish, he thought. She kneeled in her seat and handed her folded newspaper over its back. “See? Right here, seven doown.”
“Paradox,” Ben repeated, pretending to look at her paper. She had the most gorgeous green eyes he’d ever seen. He cleared his throat.
“Well? D’yew knew or whot?” Her lilt softened the tone.
“Oh yeah, I know. A paradox is a woman with horrible taste in music and the singing voice of a toad, but the speaking voice of an angel. Paradox.”
She stared at him, expressionless. Ben smiled at her, but she didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t budge.
After a full minute she shook her paper at him.
Ben blushed as he looked at the puzzle again. “Er, paradox means ah, let me see, ends in ‘a’… try ‘enigma’.”
“Another goddamn know-it-all, A-hole-critic,” she mumbled under her breath as she replaced the earbuds. “Thanks. Thanks a lot,” she shouted over her shoulder before she belted out “There she goes… there she goes again….”