Beginning of a short story I haven't gotten around to finishing. Title needs to be different. (Song credit: Leonard Cohen)
Like a bird on a wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way
To be free
Like a worm on a hook
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons
For thee
She never quite got it, never quite felt what it was about the droning voice that made Walter tip his graying head over the top of the leather easy-chair and take deep, shaky gulps of the musty air. He always seemed to like having her there, would set her on his knees and trace her shoulder blades the way she liked, the way that made her fall asleep if he did it long enough. It was always nice in the basement, cool and dark but still cozy. The record, scratched lovingly by the old diamond needle, turned round and round, and Ruthie always watched to see if she could read the words as they went speeding by. She thought she could, but maybe it was just because she’d read it so many times when it was still, when it sat patiently on the machine and waited for her father’s hands to bring it to life. Leonard Cohen’s Bird on a Wire. Sometimes Walter would put on Elvis, or sometimes classical music. Then he’d dance, he’d swing her around and he’d laugh, and Ruthie would be happy, so happy. And then sometimes they would just sit, just sit there and listen, her to him and him to the song, and she would wish he’d talk. In his big arms, she leaned back against him, turned her cheek to his chest and pressed her ear tight to his heart. Heard the steady thump, heard it slow as he breathed, in, out, in, out. And listened closely with the other ear, wishing she could hear what her father heard in that croaky voice, wishing she could feel what he felt and know why.
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