The party at the Havelock’s was going on just fine. People were milling around, talking, drinking. But that was exactly what put Micheal off, he didn’t like people. He preferred being alone to anything, well apart from smoking and playing the violin, but he couldn’t do that with people. He’d loved being alone since he could remember. Even in a family with four children, he’d always been the quite, unassuming boy who no one really knew anything about. He liked it.
His head was spinning, it’d been nearly two hours since his last smoke, he needed it. No one would notice his absence, given they did not notice his presence too. He headed towards the backyard, then jumped over the fence, his lithe frame comfortably gracing over the short fence. Then walked towards the woods that he had smoked in since he was ten years old.
Walking further in, he found his tree with the hollow trunk. Inside were a couple of cigarette packets, and a violin. The violin was dusty and a little unkempt. It was the first violin he had ever got. He was four years old then. Now, thirteen years later, he had already got a beautiful, hundred and twenty year old violin from his father, the only one who acknowledged his music in the family. Though his father didn’t like classical music, he knew his son was gifted and rewarded him deservingly.
Pulling out a cigarette from a pack of Malboro’s, Micheal lit it and took a long puff, closing his eyes, and let the nicotine get absorbed into his bloodstream and then let the it out. His head stopped spinning a little and as he progressed into finishing the cigarette, he felt his body feel much better. He knew all about the dangers of smoking, but he couldn’t care less. He liked it too much. Micheal then picked up the old violin, it wasn’t as old as his new one, but it looked horrendous. Micheal was surprised that it was still in tune.
Putting the bow lightly across the strings, he launched into his rendition of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. Savoring every note, he quickly moved unto Vivaldi’s Summer, and then ended playing an original piece that he had written when he was twelve. As the silence slowly took over, he opened his eyes, already refreshed, energized and feeling good. Looking at his watch, he saw that it had been fifteen minutes. He got a feeling that his father may have noticed him not being there. He put his violin and pack of cigarettes back into the trunk, fighting the urge to play and smoke more. He had marijuana in his room, he would have that for solace.
As he started to walk, someone spoke, “Quite good, I must say.”
Spinning around, he saw that the voice had come from a female, and one that he faintly recognized. She was wearing a black pullover and jeans, everything was black, leaving her lips, which were without lipstick and her nails, painted a deep shade of red. Micheal felt a faint shade of crimson wash over his face. He hated people, especially if they knew he played violin and all. A feeling of foreboding washed over him, she might have caught his smoking too. He damned himself for being careless.
She looked up and continued, “Well, it was, you should play live or something.”
In return, Micheal just shrugged, muttering something about not caring. The girl then reached into her pocket and pulled out a box of Dunhill’s. Looking at him she said, “Cigarette? ”
Transfixed, Micheal stood there, a little afraid, and a lot confused.
She let out a short laugh and said, “Don’t worry your secrets are safe with me, provided mine are with you.”
Nodding, Micheal looked around, to hell with people looking for him, he had nothing to do. He stepped forward and accepted the cigarette.
“You don’t talk much do you? ”
Micheal smiled at this. Talking didn’t come natural to him. He had to be urged on.
“You never did Mikhail Havlicek.”
At the mention of his name, he looked up and smiled even more. He liked his real name, hating the anglicized Micheal Havelock every time someone said it. He looked weird, black hair, pale blue eyes and a tall and extremely thin frame. And his new name made him feel even more weird. Ever since he was four, he was called Micheal, because his mother felt it was necessary to let him fit in. His father always called him Mikhail in private. He liked his real name.
He also recognized the girl. Her name was Mary Howard. Their family had been friends ever since his father had father had first come to the England in 1967 from West Berlin. He had gotten married in 1971 and the kids followed, him being the smallest, born in 1992. The girl, he knew was roundabout his age, went to the same boarding school he did, but as always, he hardly knew anyone but himself. How the hell would he know anymore?
“Well…., ” he began, and as always, found himself searching for words, “it’s easier not to.”
She nodded, pulling on the cigarette. A soft zephyr flowed by, tossing her hair a little. Micheal noticed that she had dark crimson streaks in them, making her seem like one of those punks who listened to what was it, Sex Revolvers or something. He, as always, felt nonchalant.
“We should get going, it’s been nearly half an hour, ” Micheal said as he stubbed the cigarette beneath his Converses. He never really knew why he liked them, but as always, he didn’t care. He pulled out a pack of mints from his jacket, and offered some to the girl. “The smell, ” he said.
“Thank God, you have mints, I just realized I didn’t have any.”
Shrugging he put the mints back in his jacket, and then set off towards the house.
“Wait, ” she said, “don’t you know, you shouldn’t leave a lady alone, besides, my parents are at your place anyway.”
Shrugging again, Micheal waited for her, then resumed walking. No one talked, evening was setting in and as they came towards the house, Micheal could here the faint music of some jazz band. He liked jazz, liked the complexity of it, the scales, the modes, the tensions and mostly, the improvisations. He also recognized the tune, it was Miles Davis, Bitches Brew. He knew the whole song by heart, and often improvised over it with a violin though he knew it was unusual.
Reaching the fence, he jumped over it, as he had done earlier. He was surprised to know that she could do it just as easily. She looked over him and smiled, “That was easy.”
Micheal nodded and carried on, reaching the yard where everyone was. The music stopped and people were leaving. He heard his mother call his name from inside the house. Waving a hand at Mary, he turned around and disappeared into the house.
/ my profile 
