Eyes

[2005]

          She felt their eyes upon her, pouring into her like laser beams.  Tiny pins shot all over her body, and electric eels swam around in her stomach, overpowering any butterflies fluttering about.  She began to sweat.

          She felt like the eyes numbered hundreds.  Blue, brown, and hazel, some were even magnified to further daunt her.  Those magnified she could see better, and she knew that they could see her better as well.  Eyes that were big and round, gazing and unblinking, and eyes that were small and slitty, glaring and glowering.  They all had a single focus, and the focus was on her.

          Her hands were now slippery with perspiration, and she almost dropped her guitar as she placed it into position, her fingers shaking as she carefully fingered the proper frets.  She cleared her throat, and her nervousness blared through the microphone into the silent room, loud and uncomfortable.  It was time.

          Her hands were in place, the microphone obviously worked, and everyone was watching her, waiting.  She wanted to take a deep breath, but didn’t, knowing that it would emanate throughout the room.  Instead, she began to play.

          Right away, her shaking fingers produced buzzing, wrong notes, and more nervousness.  The more wrong notes she heard, the more wrong notes she played, and the more wrong notes she played, the more nervous she became.  The nervousness piled on top of her like an avalanche, disaster and failure tumbling upon her heavily, swiftly, and interminable.  It was burying her alive, and she didn’t know how to dig herself out.

          Suddenly the words to her song escaped her, and she had no idea what she was playing.  Notes became elusive. She desperately tried to catch them, but she couldn’t seem to grab onto anything long enough to hold on. Each time she caught up with a phrase, it slipped away, always just out of reach.  The words to a song she had played millions of times, millions of ways, with millions of changes, had disappeared.  She knew her song inside and out, in multiple keys, at multiple tempos.  Until now.  This was not her living room, she thought to herself.  Or her bedroom.  She wasn’t just playing for stuffed animals, or photographs on the wall.  There were eyes.

          She lingered on a chord for a few measures, hoping that the words would come to her. They didn’t.

          She was really sweating now.  Her fingers were visibly trembling, and the chords came out of the soundboard painfully and unnaturally.

          Finally, she muffled the strings and stood up.  The silence filled the room, and it was deafening.  Grasping her guitar and stifling a sob, she ran out of the room. She felt the eyes boring into the back of her head. She wished blindness upon everyone.

          “Lacey, you’re up.”

          Lacey snapped to her senses and opened her eyes, putting the memory aside.  The guitarist was packing up, and people were getting up to refill their cappuccinos.  She didn’t want to leave the comfort of the coffeehouse couch, so well-blended with the small crowd of people.

          “Well, this is it,” she said to Mark, finishing her coffee and setting it down resolutely on the table in front of her.

          “Don’t even think about it,” he told her.  “We’re in a new place, with new people, and a new start.  It’s just you and me, and you’re playing me your song.  It’s just you and me.”

          She looked at him doubtfully.  “Just you and me,” he repeated, pushing her short brown hair behind her ears.

          Lacey walked across the room and sat on the bench.  She looked around at the small crowd of people who had returned to their seats with fresh cups and fresh anticipation.  For a moment she felt their eyes begin to beam lazars on her, and a wave of heat rushed over her.

          Now, as she looked firmly back into the eyes of her audience, the lazar beams disappeared, retracting themselves back into the pupils of their owners.

          She turned around, away from the faces, and placed her fingers on the keys.  This time she felt at home. As she listened to the clinging of the cash register and the murmuring of small conversations, the silence wasn’t so silent anymore.  She felt eyes on the back of her head, but she pushed them away, determined, and closed her eyes.

          She was suddenly in her living room, and Mark was lying on the couch.  All the lights were off and she could barely make out the keys.  She didn’t need to.  She began to play, and her fingers took off, transporting her into another world.  She left the coffeehouse and the people behind, and entered her zone.  She was untouchable, and she loved it.  Her voice joined her fingers, and no microphone was needed.  Together, they were the ultimate pair, and they told a story through melodies and motion, voice and verse, rhythm and rhyme.  For the time being there were no eyes on the back of her head, and there were no people behind her.  Her voice sang clearly and her fingers remained steady.  The world was hers.

          Lacey opened her eyes to the sound of clapping and cheering.  She was singing her last note, and it resonated in perfect harmony with the piano.

          “Another one!” someone shouted, and Lacey blushed.  She turned around to find faces of encouragement, smiles of warmth, and clapping of approval.  Her eyes met Mark’s, and he winked an “I told you so” while whistling through his teeth.

          She whirled around and started up again, upbeat and cheerful.  But this time she stayed in the room, with all the people, and all the eyes.  She simply sat on the bench and played for them, singing her song and embarking on another journey, this time taking everyone with her.