Free A Song for Julia by Charles Sheehan-Miles

corner, relaxed looking in corduroy pants and sitting on a milk crate. His greying hair and beard tumbled down his chest, and without the guitar, I would have guessed he was homeless. As it was, I stood there listening. He was playing an immaculate Guild acoustic 12-string with beautiful harmonics. I closed my eyes, swaying a little, taking in the music and letting it wash away the dark thoughts and emotions that tormented me. Music had always been my refuge, my passion.
    A few feet away, Mitch Roark was also listening. He nodded to me, a gentle smile on his face. Mitch and I dated a few times sophomore year, but I’d quickly backed off. He was a great guy from a very unconventional background, and we’d clicked from the start. His dad, Allen Roark, was one of the most successful alternative rock stars out there. Mitch had grown up on the road, home schooling, and finally attending an exclusive New England prep school for his last three years of high school. We had too much in common: not someone I could date.
    The song ended all too soon. The guitarist eyed me and then said, “Hope you liked it, Miss. I got another for ya.” Then he started to strum, and within two chords I recognized the music and smiled—“Ghost Riders in the Sky”. I’d always been partial to The Outlaws version, but this … hearing a raw edged song about cowboys and the Old West here in Harvard Square? It was sublime. 
    I closed my eyes, swaying to the music, swinging around in circles. For just a fraction of a second, I could imagine the freedom the old cowboys felt, what it must have been like to see the horizon, to know and understand the boundaries of your life, to be able to get up in the morning and breathe clean air and not face a thousand stated and unstated expectations.
    When the music ended, I stopped and opened my eyes. And flushed furiously, because a small crowd of Harvard undergraduates was watching. And clapping. Including Willard, who stood there, very slowly clapping in a half-contemptuous manner. As always, he wore Dockers, a polo shirt and a nice pair of brown leather shoes.
    Mitch threw a couple dollars in the open guitar case, gave me a wave, and said, “See you around, Julia.”
    Whatever. I reached in my purse, took out two twenty-dollar bills and dropped them in the guitar case. As I leaned close to drop the money in, I whispered, “Thank you.”
    As I stood and turned around, Willard approached, and his eyes bugged out when he saw how much money I’d put in the guitar case. “Julia. That was some performance.” As he finished his sentence, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. 
    Willard never, ever hesitated to be condescending, to anyone. I felt myself tense, straining not to snap at him. “You know me, I love music.”
    He shrugged. He’d never been that interested in what I loved. “Didn’t see you around this weekend.”
    “I was out of town.”
    “Oh?”
    I didn’t volunteer any more information. The peaceful, beautiful mood the song had put me in was withering away. Willard never inspired much emotion of any kind, but at the moment he’d managed annoyance. Score for him.
    He tried to engage me again. “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. Have you had dinner? Care to join me?”
    Not really, I thought. I hadn’t expected that. “Willard, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Hey … relax, Julia. We can be friends, you know. Just a friendly dinner, I’m not asking you out on a date.”
    Why did he have to be reasonable? If I said no now, then I was being a bitch. I set in place my mechanical smile and did what I always did … not what I wanted, but what was expected. “Well, all right. As friends.”
    Willard, as always, led the way to where he wanted to eat: in this case, across Mass Ave to a pizza place. The food here wasn’t so bad, so I guess I was okay with it. The place was about half full when we walked in, a low murmur of conversation layered over music from the