There is a house in a village perched on a hill, overlooking a road that winds down the town below. Ours is a quiet town in a small island surrounded by the Mediterranean waters, but the man living in — or I dare say, visiting — this house is never quiet.
He comes at least once a year with his guitar and stays for a number of months, rousing everyone from their sleep with hums, random repeating notes, and sometimes screams from his balcony, day and night.
I like taking walks in the morning and I pass by this house along my daily route. Sometimes, I’d hear the man — always dressed in white shirt and dark trousers, I later noticed — plucking his guitar in search of a note. Other times, I’d stop to listen, or look up to see just a mop of messy dark curls peeking by the balcony, a lit cigarette teetering precariously on the edge of the railing. In a small and sleepy town such as ours, someone like him can be entertaining for a curious girl like me.
One morning, as I was taking my usual walk, I stopped by the house to listen to the man again. This time, the once random notes progressed into a steady melody, then joined by a warm, smoky voice. The man was singing but I could not make out the words. In my curiosity, I stayed longer, waiting for the song to finish, eyes closed to take in nothing but the music. It was a simple yet compelling tune, a little sad but also hopeful. “You’re my compass and my sea,” I could finally make out.
Suddenly, the music stopped. I kept my eyes closed, waiting for him to resume, but when he didn’t my brows furrowed. After a moment of piercing silence, I opened my eyes at last and looked up. I saw the man peering down at me from his perch, the mop of curls finally revealing his face. His eyes were a dreamy hazel, his skin alabaster, and his face framed handsomely by a bit of stubble. If I didn’t know better, I’d dare say it was Apollo himself who has come down to serenade this sleepy town of ours.
“Well, would you like to come up so you could listen better and tell me what you think?” he said in a strange accent.
All he had to do was ask.
LomoLit is series of fresh and original fiction made by Lomographers, for Lomographers. But if you want more reads to satisfy your analogue soul, then you might also want to check out our articles in The Analogue Reader series!