Tiny Imperfect Fiction 08

He came to Nashville from the Ivory Coast with only a guitar. He wore his white hair about two inches high, round tortoise shell glasses, lived-in blue jeans, and low blue sneakers. He sang in French and English, songs about leaving, loving, and losing.

He sang “Everything’s al-right , manna na nah na, na-nah."

He played in San Francisco, Minneapolis, New York City, Montreal, London and Paris. He rode shirtless on a motorcycle down Laurel Canyon Blvd alongside his friend David. He wrote songs with Jason, and played with Emmylou. He learned and played and gave and gave and gave.

When he got home that morning, he didn't sleep. Instead, he got into his 1964 blue convertible blue, drove straight to her house, parked at the curb, grabbed the dozen cheap roses, walked to the front door, and rang the bell.

He waited. Faraway, a car honked. A dog barked. There was mostly morning silence. And then some footsteps- she wore yellow wooden clogs.

The door made unlatching clicks and she stood there looking doubtful. “What are you doing here?”

He said matter-of-factly, “I’m tired of traveling alone. Will you come with me?”

“Did you bring cheap roses?” she asked impartially.

“Yes I brought them. Twelve and very cheap" he confirmed by holding them up like a sword, revealing his weapon.

One corner of her lips dimpled in an ever-so-slight smile. “Then yes, I’ll come with you.”   

It was decided.