Her steps are like a dance. They have rhythm. One. Two.
And the rhythm reminds her of him because he keeps rhythm with his drums. One. Two.
She
leans against the wall outside the room where the band practices. The
drums are fanatic and they beat bruises around the inside of her head,
but she loves them anyway.
A-one, two, three. There
is the whine of electric guitar and the odd strumming of the bass.
Above all the din, a voice rises, a girl’s voice. It is a melodic
cacophony but she covers her ears, so she can only feel the rhythm that
beats against her bones. It doesn’t match the steady drumming of her
heart, but they seem to get along well, from her point of view. One, two. Four, ten, six, three. The
cymbals crash and she falls back to reality, like her arms that drop
limply to her sides. She leaves quickly, before the band does. Now there are no drums, though their rhythm is pounding under her skin like a broken pulse. Eight, three, five, two, one, two. It’s like the unsteady thrumming is trying to count the times he passed her by when she tried to say but couldn’t speak, and he stared straight at her though he never really looked. One, two. One, two. One. Two. Three. Hundred. | 
