Free Love Songs by Bernadette Marie

hung there adhered with a piece of tape.
    Warner thumbed through his keys until he found the right one. He jiggled it in the lock and finally pushed open the door. As he walked through he tore off the paper and carried it inside.
    For a moment he stood there and then kicked the door shut behind him. What a horrible little hell he’d created for himself in that little apartment.
    Pizza boxes and two liter bottles littered the table where he wrote music. His keyboard had no less than three stale mugs of coffee balanced on it. As if he could afford for one of those to spill—he’d paid an outrageous fortune for that damn thing. And did he have a cat? No, but it smelled like he did.
    He threw down the piece of paper he’d collected from the door along with his keys onto the cluttered coffee table and let out a long breath. No napping. He needed to clean this place up.
     
    Three hours later Warner fell onto the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes. Six bags of trash had been taken to the dumpster. Four baskets of laundry had been carried to his truck so he could make a trip to the Laundromat.
    His cupboards were now filled with clean dishes and he’d thrown out the rotten strawberries in his refrigerator and made a grocery list. Other than condiments, he had no food.
    Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand he laughed at himself. He was a slob. Clara’s cluttered little bedroom was a haven compared to the hell hole he’d been living in. But maybe that needed to change.
    Warner tapped his hand against his leg and a beat generated at his fingertips. The hell I’ve created…that would need to change.
    He sat up and tapped the same beat on the coffee table. The hell we’ve created…it was time for a change.
    The words danced in his head and beat now tapped his foot.
    He stood and walked over to the newly dusted keyboard and began the workings of the song that now played in his head.
     
    ***
     
    Clara sat at the kitchen table and bit into the sandwich she’d made for dinner. It was nearly nine o’clock and she’d been calling Warner since she’d left the theater. He’d never answered.
    She was setting herself up for disappointment. He had a wanderer’s soul and she was just a stop on his route to wherever he was going to land.
    The house was too quiet. Tyler was gone and the basement was void of everything but the furniture that stayed. Christian was at Tori’s. It seemed as though she’d decided he was worth having over at night. And now Clara sat alone in her kitchen with a piece of bologna between bread and she was calling it dinner time. She was pathetic.
    Well, it was only one night. She knew she shouldn’t feel bad for herself. Tomorrow night would start the final run of West Side Story. Her days as Maria were numbered. And then there was the gig Randy had set up for them, though it was going to have to be all Warner now. There was no way she could commit to performing with him.
    As she bit into her sandwich there was a pounding on the front door. She yelped as she bit down on her cheek.
    Who could possibly be at the door this late?
    The pounding continued and Clara quickly stood, hurried to the cupboard, and reached for her gun. She’d hated Christian leaving it there, but now she was glad it was in reach.
    “Clara, are you home?” She heard Warner’s voice call out.
    Her adrenaline had kicked in and she laid the gun back on the shelf. Her hand was shaky and even holding it in her hand wasn’t safe.
    She took a deep breath and hurried to the door.
    As she pulled open the door she narrowed her eyes on him. He was a wreck. Were those the same clothes he’d had on when he left her off at the theater?
    “What are you doing?”
    His eyes were open and bright. “You have to listen to this.” He moved past her with his guitar in his hand, not even in its case.
    Warner propped his foot up on the coffee table, raked his fingers through his already mussed up hair, and then he began to