Making melodies // Christy & Chris
Chris wandered into town with his acoustic strapped to his back. He was a little nervous to be playing out in town like this, since he usually had the home-court advantage of playing at the Tavern, surrounded by people who generally liked him. But this Christy girl had seemed alright on the phone, and she had decent taste in music. And anyway, he could really use both the distraction and hopefully the cash that this would bring in.
He spotted who he assumed was Christy sitting by the supermarket. She looked vaguely familiar, and he wondered if she had a fake ID up on the Wall of Shame at the bar. She looked young enough, at least. He couldn’t help but smile at her clothes—it was the same kind of faux-punk uniform he’d worn in high school. Of course, his look had come with bleached, straightened hair and studded wristbands, which wasn’t a look he liked to think back on.
“Hey,” he said when he drew even with Christy. He shrugged his guitar off of his back and gave her a grin. “This seat taken?”
A miracle happened, right there and then: Christy Rossi smiled whole-heartedly (and perhaps a wee bit nervously) at a complete stranger she’d never really met before. Not even a trace of a scowl was visible in her face, and when she actually saw who he was; when that pang of recognition told her this guy was not only the lead singer, but guitarist in a band, a local Sawyer band, that she actually listened to, the smile turned to a shocked expression of joy. Getting up faster than a canon ball, Christy pointed a finger at him. Keeping calm, however, she grinned broadly at him.
“You — you’re…,” she stuttered calmly, not sure how to really express herself. She had actually seen his band live at least twice; it wasn’t hard in a town like Sawyer. “Well, holy shit. You’re in UNTITLED ARTIST. Bloody hell, how lucky aren’t I to have gotten the number of that Chris?”
She put her hands on her sides, smiling happily up at him (and actually adding a wink), Christy couldn’t help but just assume that a guy walking by with a guitar wondering whether he could sit down next to her was the same guy whom she’d texted. Either that, or the other guy would turn up and find his place occupied — but as it was to be occupied by someone from a band she whole-heartedly listened to, Christy wouldn’t care less. Though her shoes wore heels, lifting her up above her usual height, she was still short and skinny. Jokingly pulling the hem of an invisible skirt, she bowed before him, and then made a presentative gesture toward the ground.
“This seat is all ours,” she said, grinning broadly, sitting down again and crossing her legs. Pulling that classical black round Chaplin-hat from behind her, she held it up for Chris to see. “I’m, well, Christy. Christy Rossi. Brought with me this. Let’s earn those cash by making some sweet melodies, eh?”