I brought the Takamine into the back studio where Melissa was painting an extremely abstract portrait of me with my guitar. “I wrote a song for you,” I said shyly.
“Not another one?” Melissa smiled and wiped her brush. “Will you play it for me?”
I suddenly felt awkward. “Okay, but don’t look at me while I’m singin’ it.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘Redemption,’” I said.
Melissa turned back to her painting and I plucked out a complicated tune that started in A minor.
Moses don’t part the Red Sea for me
I’ll break my own heart on the shores of the sea
I’ll drown on my own so call back your boats
my body goes down, I hope my soul floats.
Redemption is not always easy
close my mouth so I don’t ask for pity
shut my eyes, pretend that I hold her
give anything to put my head on her shoulder
everything for you
everything for you.
Moses don’t part my hair for me
when you look in my heart I hope I’ll be pretty
if I show you my brain will you invite me
in from the rain I swear I’ll walk lightly.
Redemption is not always pretty
close my mouth so I don’t ask for pity
shut my ears to all the world’s lies
give anything to see love in her eyes
everything for you
everything for you.
“That’s beautiful,” Melissa said, turning to look at me when I finished. “Do you really think of yourself that way?”
“What way?” I put down the guitar.
“That you hope you’ll be pretty enough so I’ll ask you in from the rain.”
I lowered my gaze self-consciously. “Remember that night I waited for you outside your flat and it was raining? I think I felt like that then.”
Melissa put down the brush and kissed me. “You don’t need to break your own heart anymore, love,” she said.
“Oh.” I was barely audible. I held her against my black “SILENCE = DEATH” T-shirt with the pink triangle on the front.
Melissa squeezed me. “I love you, you know.”
I rested my head against her shoulder. “I love you, too.”
“I love it that you write me songs.”
My face felt warm, and I sang a soppy Ramones tune I love off the Subterranean Jungle album, “My-My Kind of a Girl”:
“When I saw you on 8th street
you could make my life complete, baby
yeah, yeah, yeah
you’re my-my kind of a girl.”
“Come on,” Melissa laughed, “I’m serious.”
I continued:
“When I saw you by the Peppermint Lounge
you were lost but you’ve been found, baby
yeah, yeah, yeah
you’re my-my kind of a girl.”
“You know what, love?” Melissa tousled my uneven, spiky hair. “I decided if I was talking to you inside your head somehow and was there when you needed me, then I’m glad.”
I put my mouth against her ear, singing a little of the chorus to the Jellyfish song “Will You Marry Me,” and kissed her.
In the back sitting room, Melissa put on Nirvana’s Nevermind CD and fixed herself a vermouth and 7UP. I took sips from her glass as we sat together on the couch. “Lithium” was playing, and Kurt Cobain sang, “I’m so happy cause today I found my friends, / they’re in my head—”
“Hey,” I nudged her, “that’s my song.”
“—I’m not scared, light my candles, / in a daze cause I found God.”
After “Lithium,” Kurt’s antirape dirge “Polly” came on, giving me a jolt. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been prepared with some excuse to take the CD out before it reached that song. Nervously I said, “This album can be dead depressing if you’re in the wrong mood,” afraid she might be upset. “I prefer these songs live and not overproduced.” I gave the sensible, musical reason to turn it off that had nothing to do with content.
“Sorry,” Melissa said, getting up to change the CD. She put on “Rape Me” from Nirvana’s In Utero CD and gave me a solemn look. My mouth dropped open, and she winked at me.
“You’re a laugh riot,” I said, and Melissa smiled.
I got up and put on her best bootleg of the Real People, a mod band from Liverpool that I loved. I sang along with “Feel the Pain.” “‘Feel the pain, open your heart. / I’m so in love that I’m falling apart.’”
“You’re right,” Melissa said, putting her arm around my shoulders as I sat back down, “mental illness is much funnier.”
“I still wish I could track him down and kill him for you.” I was only semi-joking.
“Paul? Yes,” Melissa said enthusiastically, “that would make me feel ever so much better, especially when I’m visiting you in the nick. What a perfect way to be here for me.” She squeezed my shoulder and kissed my cheek.
I remembered a song from a Take Back the Night march I’d gone to a long time ago in Soho.
Don’t go out on your own tonight,
you’ll never get home my lad.
Don’t go out on your own tonight,
the women are really mad.
‘Cos we can kick, and we can fight,
and women will take back the night.
Tonight’s the night the women are on the rampage!
We’d pounded our fists on the windows of the sex shops in Leicester Square. A mob of about thirty rough-looking patrons came out and stood menacingly at one end of the street. A gaggle of coppers stood at the other end. We decided to take our chances with the police, who escorted us to the tube station and made sure we got on a train.
Melissa rumpled my hair good-naturedly. “Let’s go to bed and plot how we’re going to kill your ex-therapists.” She took my hand and led me upstairs.