What's Left.

A bird’s song drifted through the air, its harmonious notes somehow finding a way to penetrate the once-shining fortress of grime that was alleged to have let light into the classroom once upon a time. The barred notes, upon reaching the man, fell in anguish and defeat upon his desk, met with a look of utter disdain. Regardless of this first defeat, their creator continued to send waves of attacks his way. Eventually, the agitation of having his intense focus disturbed made the man cross to the window wielding a stapler and prepared to end the war once and for all. A cloud of silvery dust was sent into flight, looking somehow poetic in the dull illumination of the classroom, as the man broke the single defense between himself and his optimistic enemy. He pulled his arm back, ready to strike when the sense that another soul had joined his side of the battlefield made the man postpone all attacks until the small ounce of curiosity he possessed was satisfied.

--

The sun was shining brightly, causing an inviting and happy atmosphere to cast itself over the hurried city. Andrew was wandering down the streets with a cheery bounce in his step and arms full of bags from the shopping he had just finished. In his mind, Led Zeppelin's 'Lemon Song' blared loudly, causing him to clumsily air guitar his way toward his flat. Passing a group of girls sitting outside a coffee shop, he smiled and gave them a quick wink - sending all five of them into high-pitched giggles.

Continuing on his journey, he threw some spare change to a homeless man and earned the attention of a tall brunette. He smiled at her before opening the glass door to his apartment building and starting up the numerous stairs. On a typical day, Andrew ended the journey aggravated that his flat seemed to reside on the millionth floor - but not today. Today Andrew was happy with life, the world ... and the stairs.

Fishing out the key from his pocket, he began to sing one of the guitar solos of the song under his breath. Once the door was unlocked, he flung it open with a flourish and sang "Said, people worry I can't keep you satisfied." at the top of his lungs, put down the bags he had been carrying and continued, directly to a nearby lamp, "Let me tell you baby, you ain't nothin but a two-bit, no-good jive!!!" He fell on the floor, tightly clenching an invisible microphone to his mouth. The lyrics themselves may seem a bit offensive - but hell, it was Zeppelin! And, much to the dismay of his neighbors, Andrew had quite a love for the helium-pitched voice of Robert Plant.


--

“You have holes in you shoes.”Said the man, blatantly looking down at Andrew’s feet. There was a tear on the inward side of the left shoe, exposing the young man’s chocolaty brown socks, and several matching breaks in the fabric on the right.

“Yep.” Agreed Andrew, following the man’s gaze down to his feet. Admittedly the shoes he clad his feet with were rather beat up, but he didn’t exactly have to money to purchase new ones.

“It’s been quite some time,” remarked the man in a low, monotonous voice. The air felt thick as the conversation came to a halt. He picked up a paperweight shaped like a crab holding a sign declaring “Greetings from Florida!” in too-happy letters. His fingers ran over the crustacean’s features. Without looking up from the creature he asked, his tone suddenly turning stern. “What are you doing here?”

There was a moment of silence in which the man felt Andrew’s eyes upon him; boring into his psyche. His face suddenly grew hot and he forced himself to look up, still grasping the crab .

“What am I doing here?” Andrew asked, obviously mocking the man. He chuckled, a malicious smirk crossing his face. “I don’t know ‘sir’ perhaps you should tell me.”

Color rushed to the man’s face as the smirk found its way to Andrew’s. He set down the crab, a piece of its sign being chipped in the process. “This isn’t a game.” He said, a plethora of emotions bursting through in those four, short words.

“Oh I’m quite aware of that, boy-oh,” Andrew picked up the crab, his finger lightly tracing the spot that had chipped. “Little drops of rain whisper of the pain…” he sang, his voice partly in song, but mainly in mocking laughter.

The man’s pulse quickened, he dug his fingernails into his palms, the heat on his face rose in temperature. He wanted, more than anything, to punch his companion, to tighten his hands around his neck, to keep this moment from continuing any further …. But he knew this was an impossible desire.