Page 43 of Poetry By Dead Men
And if you’re not moving forward
The only place to go is down
Feels like I’m running round in circles
Lord, can you set me right
I’m singing the prayer of a lost man tonight
—An excerpt from "Prayer of the Lost," written and performed by Robert Beckett
I shake my head against the onslaught of memories. "Is this thesamebus?" I ask, not sure how that would even be possible. The number of miles on this thing would be insane. And things don’t lookexactlythe same. There are subtle differences in the layout. The coffee table is different, for instance, and what looks like an extremely expensive espresso machine sits on the counter where a simple coffee pot used to be.
I spin in a circle as I wait for his answer, robotically moving toward the living room. My eyes snag on a vase full of bright flowers on an end table—wild roses. Summer blooms that pluck the ghost of Bobby’s voice quoting a Wilcox poem to me so many years ago from the depthsof my mind. I close my eyes for a moment, willing the sound—and the wave of sorrow it brings along with it—away.
"Parts of it," Bobby answers. "Got a new engine last year, and I've done some renovations. But the bones are all the same."
Seeing it all makes me dizzy, and I sit down in the corner of the couch.
"You always liked that spot," Bobby says as he inclines his head to where I’m sitting. His eyes are sad, regretful, and he leans against the doorframe, staring intently as if using all his energy to commit this moment to memory.
I glance down at the brown leather under me, and my palms start to sweat. "There is no way this is the same couch," I say, even though the soft, buttery fabric feels so familiar to me, I think my energy is embedded into it.
Bobby gets a mischievous glint in his eye, and his serious mouth tilts up into a smirk. "Trust me," he says. "I will never, for as long as I live, get rid of this couch."
I shift uncomfortably, memories of a night several years ago flooding my mind. Blood warms my cheeks, and I duck my chin to hide my face from his scrutiny.
Bobby pushes off the doorframe and walks to the kitchen counter, pulling out a light-purple coffee cup I recognize and placing it beneath the espresso machine. My jaw drops as I look at the small crack in the handle ofmycup, the one I’d kept as my designated mug while Bobby was on tour.
An unexpected pang of grief shoots through my chest at the memories of the porcelain warming my hands on cold winter nights. Of Bobby making me countless cups of coffee with lavender in the mornings.
The only thing more painful than the memories is the fact that he’s kept it all these years.
"What?" he asks, as if we're talking about the weather. "It’s a really comfortable couch. Me keeping it has absolutely nothing to do with—"
"Stop. I remember." I say, standing abruptly, suddenly very uncomfortable with sitting onthecouch.
Bobby's eyes flash to mine, and I swear the heat in them could set the world aflame.Don't play with fire, Beth,I remind myself.
"What time do we hit the road?" I ask, desperate to change the subject.
He pauses as he reaches to grab the espresso beans but recovers quickly. "My first show isn't for three days. We’ll pull out around four."
The coffee maker kicks into gear, and I take the final swig of my cooled coffee from Joe's, ready for my third cup of the day.
"Wait—" His words catch up to me. “We’re not leaving till four?”
“Yep.” Bobby spoons some espresso into the handle, the aroma mixing with the earthy scent of leather and giving me a sense of déjà vu.
"Right." I shake my head, trying to clear the memories muddying my thoughts. "And why is it then that you told me we were leaving early this morning?"
Bobby’s jaw tightens as the espresso starts to drip. He grabs some milk from the fridge and begins steaming it, avoiding my question.
"Bobby," I say again, my cheeks heating. "Why did you tell me we were leaving early?"
His jaw hardens. "What was wrong when you called me last night?" he asks without turning to face me, his voice tight.
I stiffen. Bobby had always been able to read me like I read my poems, but I’d hoped that years of distance would have changed that. I clear my throat.
