Muddy Rock Pub

Muddy Rock Pub

A Story by M.E.Lyle

Muddy Rock Pub

I sat starring at the floor of the Muddy Rock Pub, a complete wreck of a soul.

My guitar leaned against one of the few vacant seats in the place.

On stage at the far end of the pub a band played some rock tune I didn't recognize. I guess they were pretty good, I didn't know. The rowdy crowd seemed to like them. As for me, I could barely recall why I was even there.

It was Friday night.

Everyone who was anyone knew Muddy's Friday night tradition.

They allowed wanna-be-stars to perform during the house band's 30 minute break.

I came with aspirations of doing great things. There was only this one little thing, my aspirations.

It had become overtaken by my lack of inspiration.

It, my inspiration, had flown out the door the moment I had finally came to the real conclusion, and realization, that she was gone, forever and for good.

She was my first true love, and, you know what they say about the first true love, you never get over them. I was insanely crazy about her.

Unfortunately, as is in everything, life's little circumstances sent us in different directions.

We suffered from a long distance relationship, and it just didn't work out.

The flame fizzled and soon faded.

I kept hoping secretly it would all work out but, as everyone knows, those things rarely happen.

On a cold, winter night, we parted.

We haven't spoken since.

I think it was more of a silent understanding of an ending relationship rather than an actual verbal good bye.

And thus, I found myself in the sad situation I was in.

Life happens and there's nothing that can be done about it.

So, how could I perform in the state-of-mind I was in?

It would be total disaster.

I grabbed my guitar and started to leave when a hand lit on my shoulder.

"Hey mister, mind if I share this table with you?"

I glanced up weakly and mumbled something like,

"Sure, be my guest. I was just leaving anyway."

"But, aren't you playing tonight, I see your guitar? Aren't you going to play?"

I gave her a good look. Slung over her left shoulder, she totted her own guitar.

"No," I said.

Her wavy blonde hair partially covered her silk smooth, pale white complexion. A sparkle of blue peeked out from her eyes.

Her demeanor flowed with exuberance.

I felt a mild sense of enthusiasm, a spark to my present sorry state of mind.

She was one of those type A' personalities to be sure.

I would discover later my perception was slightly askewed somewhat.

"But...but, you have to, you just must.?

"Why?" I asked.

She stood straight and looked about the room and commented,

"Because, there's nobody else here but you and me wanting to get on stage. It mortifies me to my uttermost, deepest regions of my soul.

I feel fears I've not felt since I was a child. I...I just can't."

"What? I laughed.

I hadn't laughed in a long. It was a good feeling.

This silly, strange girl had me laugh.

Fighting back any further laughter, I asked,

"Why are you here then?"

Looking at me disapprovingly she replied,

"I'm glad you think it's so funny but, it will be the death of me for sure.

Think of it, me being up there...all alone, dying...dying like , like Juliet. Only this Juliet won't have her Romeo, will she."

She looked at me sadly,

"And , sitting here laughing.

It's a shameful thing of you, when you really think of it."

"Wait," I replied, "Are you saying I'm like your Romeo?"

She sat her guitar aside, plopped down in one of the chairs, and placed both elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands.

She moaned sadly and stated,

"Yes." she said, covering her face with her hands.

"I have a confession. It's terrible really, and you'll hate me for it when I tell you."

I looked at her curiously. What could this confession be? And why would she make it to a near perfect stranger? I was hooked, wanting to know the answer.

She put her forehead in the palms of her hands and starred at the table, then whimpered,

"Well, you see, I...I...oh, it involves you, don't you see?," she cried.

Crying? I didn't know what to do about crying, I mean, how do you get a girl to stop crying? I tell you this, girls are the greatest of the worlds most unsolved mysteries.

"What's wrong?" I asked, "Does it have something to do with your confession?"

I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway. Sometimes I'm a real idiot. I suppose, in some ways, you could say guys are the world's greatest idiots. I think that might be a fairly accurate assumption.

She nodded her head in confirmation. She took in a deep breath and said,

"I have to tell you the truth why I came here tonight, even though I'm practically certain it will kill me for sure.

I feel it's always best to be upfront and honest.

I came here tonight to meet you.

Is that not an awful thing?

I know it may be a bit deceitful in some ways, but I've seen you around campus and noticed you are always alone. No girl or anything."

She looked up with a pitiful look on her face.

"Do you hate me awful bad? Oh please don't.

It would mean such a tragic end to so many wonderful hopes and dreams.

You wouldn't want to be responsible for that tragic, would you?"

"What?" I gasped.

I leaned back in my chair and looked seriously at this odd girl. Who was she, where did she come from? Am I a doomed man?

She grabbed her guitar and started to leave when I stopped her.

"Hey, wait. Are you giving up, just like that?"

In a little girl kind of way she put her guitar down, sat back down and replied,

"You don't hate me then, or anything?"

"No," I giggled, "Besides, I don't know you well enough to hate you.

What's your name, anyway?"

The End

© 2020 M.E.Lyle

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Added on September 21, 2020
Last Updated on September 21, 2020



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