Mister sings.

Growing up, he spent years in formal training and being in choirs. He doesn’t do anything too formal with it anymore, but he still sings. He sings in the car. He sings in the kitchen when we wash dishes together. Little snatches of lyrics from songs passing through his head, things he heard on the radio, songs he loves, words that go with the moments we pass through.

He’s got this voice. A voice that seems bigger than himself, you initially don’t expect it to be coming from him. It is low and just a little gravelly, with a certain dark strength that crashes over you. Sometimes it gives me chills.

I have been known to sing a lot. But something about his being trained, his nonchalant talent, makes me nervous singing with or around him. He has commented on the fact that it’s not fair that he knows I belt when I’m driving, that I sing in the shower, but that I get nervous and clam up when he’s there to hear it.

There’s just something about knowing that he has got perfect pitch on his side, and that he knows when you’re making the mistakes that gets me. Nerves don’t tend to make me so hesitant and I know he will not be mean or judgmental but there still is that part of me that holds it back.

Yesterday, the moment was right. I had just arrived at his house, he had stepped out of the shower perhaps a minute or two before. His hair was still wet, he hadn’t made it into a shirt yet, and you could still smell traces of his soap on him. He hugged me, and it just kind of started.

I sang.

***Note: This post is from an old blog of mine that I have since removed. It was a first try at this blogging business that I felt didn’t have enough of a direction for me to continue it. I’m back, this is the new try, but there might be a post or two popping up here from there in the next little while, as finals are looming and time is scarce.***

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