My Butterfly

and before I knew it, all three of their sets of eyes were on me.
    I stared back at them. I felt strangely nervous, as my lips started to turn up.
    “I might have written a song,” I confessed, hardly more audible than a mumble.
    “What?” Matt asked.
    There was a surprise in his voice.
    “Let’s hear it,” Daniel shouted.
    I shook my head.
    “Nah, I don’t think it’s the kind of song you’re looking for,” I said.
    “Will, we’re looking for whatever you’ve got,” Matt said.
    “Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s a slow song.”
    “Perfect,” Daniel said. “I like slow songs. Girls like slow songs. Let’s hear it.”
    There was silence then, as the three of them stared at me and I stared back at them. They were pleading with me out of pure desperation, I could tell. And suddenly, I realized I was just about to do what I would have been doing at home, except now, I had a live audience of my three, hopeless co-workers staring back at me.
    “Damn it,” I mumbled under my breath, as I repositioned my guitar in front of my body again.
    The three men cheered and then settled back into their spots behind their instruments.
    I turned my back toward them and stepped up to the microphone. Then, I rested my fingers on the guitar’s strings and fiddled with a couple of the tuning pegs again. When I was sure I had her tuned, I planted my eyes on the garage door but then stopped. And the next thing I knew, I was shuffling around and twisting the microphone stand so that I was facing the guys again.
    “Yeah, that’s better,” Chris said, chuckling.
    I smiled.
    “Yeah, I thought so,” I said.
    I repositioned my guitar.
    “If you hate it, just stop me,” I said.
    Then, I cleared my throat as my fingers started a slow melody on the strings of my guitar. And seconds later, I parted my lips and started in:

“I’m famous in this small town
For a ghost I cannot shake
They all know I’m talkin’ to you
But of it—I don’t think they know what to make

But they don’t see what I see
They don’t see you dance on the river walk,
Underneath the street lamps
With those stars in your eyes

They don’t see you
Lying next to me
Tellin’ me your dreams,
Planted somewhere up in those big skies

No, they don’t see what I see
Because I see
A rainstorm in June
Just before the sun
The black of night
Just before the stars
And, girl, I see your ghost
Just before our dawn

And tonight I’ll see you again
Just like every night before
But they don’t see what I see
What I see is more

Because I see
A rainstorm in June
Just before the sun
The black of night
Just before the stars
And, girl, I see your ghost
Just before our dawn

And, girl, I see your ghost
Just before our dawn.”
 
    The room turned silent when my fingers stopped dancing on the strings. My eyes were planted on the floor. The song meant something to me, but they didn’t need to know that.
    Eventually, I heard a slow clap. I collected myself and slowly lifted my head. Another clap joined the first one, and then, the third set of hands started in.
    “Will, man, that was amazing,” Matt said.
    “That’s our song,” Chris blurted out, pointing at me. “We can use that song, right?”
    His gaze fell on me, and I bashfully smiled.
    “Yeah, I wouldn’t have sung it otherwise,” I said, jokingly, all the while, trying to swallow the thought of the girl behind the song.
    “The girls are going to love us,” Daniel yelled, throwing his fists into the air.
    “Okay, okay,” Matt said. “Now, let’s get to work.”
    ...
    Chris and Daniel were pulling out of Matt’s driveway as Matt and I waved from our place underneath a basketball goal. We watched their headlights eventually fade and then disappear.
    “How did you know that I might be able to sing?” I asked, as I turned back toward Matt.
    “Your buddy, Jeff, right?” he asked. “The one who hung out with us a couple of weekends ago…”
    I nodded my head.
    “Yeah, Jeff,” I confirmed.
    “Yeah, I believe his exact words were that you have ‘the voice of an angel,’” he said. “Of course, he was a little, you know…”
    He tipped back an imaginary glass in his hand.
    “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “That sounds about right.”
    “Anyway, I believed him nonetheless,” he said. “And I’m glad I did. What are you doing dressed in turnout gear anyway? Shouldn’t you be in Nashville or something, gettin’ all the pretty, country