“Oh lord, I’ve had enough of these people out here.”

I told my wife. In front of the fence of my house, one boy held a guitar in the middle of his arms; his gentle gaze rested on the girl sitting across from him. His husky voice could appeal solely to that girl. My wife chuckled. “Don’t you remember what we’ve done when we were their age.” she said.

Boston 1975,

I walked out of the restaurant that I had just spent five hours writing down what people wanted to eat, carrying my guitar behind my back. Wandering around the city at night made me feel like I was the only person who was alive. As quiet as I could hear the sound of the wind, it was around December. The cold pierced through my body. Suddenly, I saw a girl with long black hair in a wine red cardigan, holding the book “Sans Famille”, sitting on the bench. Under streetlights, every feature of her face became truly pleasing. None of the illustrious great poets could overlook this beauty in their poetry. I approached her, sitting on the other edge of the bench. Taking out my guitar, I hummed the song that I had just completed this afternoon. She slowly put down her book, turning her eyes toward me; her head swayed to the rhythm of the song.

“What do you think about it?” I asked. “I wonder what is the title for it.” She looked directly into my eyes.

“It would be named after you.” This title would remind me of the day I met the prettiest girl in my life. We talked that whole night about everything except our names. “Every night at 9 here, if we meet for 30 consecutive days, I will tell you my name.” She said when running toward the street. Every night within that 30 nights, same spot, same people, we were there singing, talking. Sometimes, the neighbors complained about us, and I pledged that for thirty days I would refrain from bothering them. None of them actually believed in me. They were right. The 30th night, the night that I have waited for, never came. I was there at 7 o’clock, wearing the vest that my father gave me. She never came. I have waited since 7 o’clock on a winter day in 1975 until now. She never came back to the bench with her red wine cardigan.

I looked back in my house. Yet another day passed, and all I do is imagine her presence in my life. For all those years, I treated my soul as if it were her own, speaking out the words I longed to hear from her back then. in our cozy apartment, but the only thing that stays with me is the music sheet of the song that has not given its name.