My+Summer+Vacation

Remembering the Nightingale

They say you never forget your first love. Well, I only ever had the one, so I'll just have to take that one at face value. I definitely remember all of it, I remember her. It's kind of funny. I've lost so many memories, whether from the endless progression of time or from a life spent looking out at the world from inside a bottle. There are entire sections of my life that I can't recall, gaping chasms in my mind. But the time I spent with her, with my Nightingale, those have never gone away. No matter how much I drink, how much I try to write it away, those memories hold me tight. Heck, the drink only makes the memories more vivid. I first saw her in a nightclub, a place called the Lighthouse. The place moved through owners and operators every couple of years, like clockwork. At the time it was owned by this Chinese family, decent enough folks, who kept the Lighthouse both honest and in the black, not an easy feat in those days. I was young then, straddling the line between a man and a boy. Like a lot of dumb kids, I thought I could do anything and I had big dreams. I wanted to be a writer, to write the novel that defined my generation. Like I said, I was young. Most of my evenings were spent sitting in a booth at the Lighthouse, whiling away the hours with pen and paper in front of me. I liked the place, simply because it the drinks were cheap and there was never any trouble. Nothing ever got written in that place though, at least not often. Some dreams just don't come true, I guess. At least, not like you'd expect them to. I remember it was a Tuesday night, and for once the Lighthouse was packed to the rafters. The place was noisier than I'd ever heard it, people I'd never seen there before talking up this singer. This was a curiosity, at least it was to me. The only singer I knew to frequent the Lighthouse was an old biddy who's voice sounded like an autumn wind, cold and dry. Not the kind of act that draws in the crowds. Most of the Lighthouse's regulars were the lost and forgotten, people who came either for an escape or because there was nowhere else for them to go. There was an undercurrent of frustration in the crowd, coming from the Lighthouse patrons who didn't appreciate this reminder of a world outside their gin soaked regrets. But that went away as soon as she stepped on stage. Her name was Annette Wallace and she was like something from a half forgotten dream. Dark hair that cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. A sweet smile that seemed made of equal parts wry humor and silent tragedy. Her dress was snow white, in stark contrast with her hair and her eyes. Her eyes, darker than the winter solstice and hypnotic so that they seemed to fill you up. Eyes that took whatever emptiness lurked in the dark recesses of your soul and made it their own. If her looks weren't enough to kill any hostility my fellow wastrels had, her voice made certain. She singing was like her eyes, taking your sadness and giving it a name and a voice. It was tragedy, despair, failure, and ever dangerous hope, striking the heart with a stiletto's edge. I got luck and met her that night. We became friends quickly, though I think I had more in mind from the start, though I didn't realize it. She, like me, was young and full of ambition. She was one of those people who just glow with potential. She could sing, paint, write poetry, everything she touched bore the same heartbreaking grace. Anyone with eyes, ears, or a brain could tell that she was going to make it big, to scale the heavens and bring fire to the gods. It was almost by accident that our relationship become something more. We were enjoying a mostly warm meal when all of a sudden the usual conversation changed. It was me who started flirting, but she responded. She even called me suave, not a phrase I've heard from anyone else. We went back and forth for a while, just playfully bantering. Things were going so well that I decided to take the plunge. I asked her out on a date. And against all my expectations and against all reason, she said yes. We had a good time, mostly spent just walking around town talking. The sun set, and night descended without either of us noticing. Again, I took a chance and asked if I could kiss her. And again, she said yes. That kiss seemed to last forever, a sweet oblivion that swallowed us both and refused to let go. I don't remember which one of us broke it off, but after it was over we just looked at each. Her eyes smoldered at me, causing my heart to pound and my entire body to tingle. It was probably one of the most idiotically happy moments of my life, just staring into those eyes and knowing that she was suddenly mine. It wasn't to last though. That same night she told me that she was leaving. My Annette, my Nightingale, had finally struck gold. She had an audition at a place in Ohio, a class joint that would give her the experience and connections she would need. She was leaving in two weeks, and after that she was off and away. Considering the circumstances, I did pretty well. She was going in two weeks, and she had every reason to go. If I tried to keep her with me, I'd just be clipping her wings, and for all my faults, that I couldn't do. We figured out what we were going to do, which was enjoy the two weeks we had. Do anything and everything we wanted, just wallow in this precious thing we had. We kissed again after that, another long blissful eternity. In my head though, I was promising to myself that I wouldn't fall in love with her. Those two weeks, we made good on our promise. We went to the movies, had dinner, whatever we felt like. I got to do all the stupid romantic things I'd always wanted to do with a girl. We danced in her apartment, her head against my shoulder. I sang to her, incredibly badly but I made up for it with enthusiasm. We kissed often and earnestly, as if every one was our last. The memories still echo my mind, a pain that I never want to get rid of. But all good things come to an end, and we knew it. We talked about what would happen after she left, how we'd handle it. She said she'd probably do her best to keep her mind off it, swearing off love stories and pictures. As for me, being the masochistic type, would throw myself into anything that would remind me of what we had. I called it self indulgent foolishness, but she called it bravery. I still don't know why. That's when I told her that I loved her. She said that she loved me back. The last night was both one of the best and most painful I've ever had. The end loomed over our heads like an oncoming storm, something we didn't want to happen but couldn't prevent. We did what we could to take up time, going to the movies, dancing, all the things we enjoyed doing with each other. We both said "I love you" more times than I could count, as if that would make everything work out. Really, it was just reassuring to hear the words. We had one hell of a time, my Nightingale and I. But the time eventually came to say goodbye. She drove me back to my apartment, and parked the car out front. I gave her a gift, a poem I'd written for her. It was the only decent things I'd ever written, and if you ask me the only decent thing I've ever written. It told her how much she meant to me, how much I was going to miss her, and how happy I was for her, for the things she was going to do. She was the most beautiful thing, the most wonderful thing, and I needed her to know that. Turned out she had had a similar idea. She'd written me a poem, saying how she'd never been loved like that before, and how she couldn't go away quietly. I started crying. Couldn't help myself, just wasn't tough enough. She held me for once, while she cried to. We whispered small comforts to each other between bitter tears, each trying to convince the other that everything would be fine. I can't tell you how much time passed, Annette and I just sitting in her car, not wanting to let go, but eventually I managed to pull myself together enough. I kissed her one last time, told her I loved her, that I always would, and that she deserved the very best out of life, and nothing less. And then I left. Years have passed since then. Annette went on to be the success I always knew she'd be. I've never heard from her, though I like to think that some of her sadder songs were inspired by us, by me. I never amounted to much as a writer. I got a couple books published but just enough to pay for my drinking. I've done things I'm not proud of, seen some things I wish I hadn't. But I've still got my memories of what I had. I can still remember her voice, the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips. I still dream about her eyes. I don't have much, and what I've got has slipped away over the years. But I've still got the poem she wrote, and a picture of her still hangs on my wall. Till the day I die, I can still remember my Nightingale.