I KNOW YOU BY HEART

The usual disclaimer applies...I don't own Johnny, I don't own the song 'I Know You By Heart' by Eva Cassidy, I don't own Eva Cassidy, but the idea is mine, so please don't steal.

Thanks for reading! :)



Midnights in winter
The glowing fire
Lights up your face in orange and gold

Every morning I take a seat on the train on the side that is closest to the platform, facing forwards. The others who catch this train are regulars and, apart from the odd few, occupy the same seats every day. I’ve chosen mine carefully and guard it like a chalice – just like the others; I join in the mad rush to get my favourite spot.

Some prefer to travel facing forwards, some prefer riding backwards. Some take window seats, some sit on the aisle so there’s no danger of anyone sitting beside them and invading their precious personal space at the ungodly hour of the morning. But this train isn’t crowded, and there’s plenty of room to spread out.

My seat offers an unbroken view of a young woman with pale, pale skin and dark copper hair, highly contrasted in the harsh fluorescent lights of the train interior. She too takes the same seat every morning – a third of the way down the carriage, on the opposite side to the platform, facing backwards, by the window. Her eyes always look tired, as if even after so many months of catching this same train five days a week, she still hasn’t adjusted to the early mornings. There are dark circles under her eyes and remnants of black mascara on her lashes. Most days she falls asleep not long after we start moving, as soon as the conductor has come through to check our tickets. Sometimes she plugs headphones into her ears and listens to silent music, staring out the window into the growing daylight. It’s these days, the days when she manages to stay awake for the early morning journey, that are the most interesting to watch.

I see your sweet smile
Shine through the darkness
Its line is etched in my memory
So I'd know you by heart

Her face, with its strong cheekbones and determined jawline, remains completely expressionless, although there’s something in the tiredness of her eyes that says the thoughts in her head aren’t all happy ones. She manages to fix her gaze on a point in the distance and keep her eyes motionless, whilst the rest of us tend to follow a certain object until it has passed out of sight behind us. And she’s incredibly still, one long leg crossed delicately over the other and her arms folded over her chest. There’s a poetry in her stillness, as if she’s attempting to fade into the background. But the contrast of her white skin and red hair against the grey furnishings of the train automatically draw your eye to her. In our dull surroundings, she stands out like a beacon.

When we pull into the station she turns left once she hits the platform, as do I. A steep flight of concrete stairs takes you onto a wide bridge that runs the entire length of the station, and another, steeper and longer, flight of the same grey concrete steps leads you down onto the street below. Once there you’re at a crossroad in the shape of a T, and the both of us always continue straight ahead, onto the thoroughfare that forms the stem of the T. Half a block up is the first tram stop, and we avoid each others’ gaze as we light cigarettes and head for that same spot.

Mornings in April
Sharing the secrets
We'd walk until the morning was gone

Today, though, the routine changes.

She carries an oversized blue tote bag, crammed with the usual junk found in women’s handbags, and on this morning, as the sun is still rising and glinting off her copper hair like firelight, she is digging through her belongings for a lighter, with an orange-tipped cigarette hanging delicately from her lips. In an automated response I hold out mine for her, and she looks at me in surprise. After several months of taking this same route every morning, we’ve never spoken, or even acknowledged each other once.

But she allows me to light her cigarette, inhaling as I touch the flame to the tip. “Thank you,” she says, her expression changing for the first time since I’ve known her. Her harsh jaw softens into a small, unsure, but sincere smile, and as her eyes crinkle into it as well, the dark circles beneath them are temporarily hidden.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. Both of our voices are rusty at the early hour – these are the first words either of us have spoken since we dragged ourselves out of bed.

We were like children
Laughing for hours
The joy you gave me
Lives on and on
'Cause I know you by heart

If the tram is running to schedule it gives us exactly three minutes of smoking time, and we both crush our cigarettes beneath our feet as the white shuttle glides into the street. There is no routine on the tram like there is on the train – sometimes I sit near her; sometimes I can’t even see her. But I always notice when she leaves, three blocks up the street. Today as she passes my seat on her way out she offers another small smile, and I return it.

She must work somewhere along the next block, because every day she departs the tram at the same intersection, but continues up the street on foot. But the tram has long passed her by the time I can see where she works, and as we reach the next stop my mind is already focussing on the day ahead of me. I won’t see her again until the next morning, when the same routine – although probably with the interruption of the cigarette-lighting episode – will repeat itself once again.

I still hear your voice
On warm summer nights
Whispering like the wind

The day goes by smoothly, as most days do when you have the routine down pat, and I soon find myself on the tram again, travelling the same route as the morning, only backwards. I’m tired, as I always am at this hour of the day, but I find myself jerked into full consciousness as we approach the same stop that the red haired girl gets off at in the mornings.

You left in autumn
The leaves were turning
I walked down roads of orange and gold

She is waiting there at the stop, dark sunglasses pulled over her face, and a large, heavy-looking cardboard box clutched precariously in her arms. She climbs the three steps into the tram carefully, through the door that is closest to me, and finding no seat available in the busy hour of the afternoon, takes a standing position in the only free space available while the other commuters pretend not to see her. She holds onto a handrail with her right hand, while in her left she is attempting to balance the box. She’s doing a fine job of it, but it’s obvious that it’s a struggle, and as the tram takes off with a sharp jolt, the box threatens to tip. As she’s recovering, the same impulse that took me this morning returns, and I stand in a quick movement.

“Here,” I say, gesturing to the empty seat.

“Oh, that’s okay…” she starts to protest, but I insist. “Thank you,” she says at last, sliding into the seat with obvious relief. She gives another shy smile and looks as if to say something, but a couple just behind us have started a blazing row, and all conversation in the tram is pointless over the noise they make. The red head pulls her sunglasses up and cranes her neck to look backwards, then her eyes meet mine and we share a grin. The people you meet on public transport, we silently agree. There’s never a dull moment.

We depart at the same station we got on, at the T intersection, and though we are separated in the crowd, I am aware that she is following me. I catch this same train home every afternoon and it always leaves from the same platform, but I’ve never seen her on this train before, and I somehow know that she is shadowing me, rather than face the arduous task of tracking down the right platform of her own accord.

I lead the way back up the ridiculously steep steps to the bridge, and take the same stairs down to the same platform as the morning. She’s made good time to keep up with me on the ascent, but the descent proves more difficult with the heavy box in her hands. Halfway down I’m struck again by the same impulse, and I turn to wait for her to catch up.

“Here, let me take that for you,” I offer, and this time she doesn’t protest. The box is even heavier than I expected. “What have you got in here?”

She gives a sheepish grin. “Crockery. It’s a beautiful set, someone at work was giving them away, so I said I’d take them, give them a good home. I didn’t count on them being so damn heavy, though.”

The train is already waiting on the platform; we’ve only a couple of minutes to spare. I lead the way into my usual carriage, still carrying the box, and she follows. We settle ourselves into a section that seats three across – I gesture for her to take the window, place the box in the middle, and take the aisle.

“Thank you for helping me,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Jess.”

“I’m Johnny,” I reply, shaking her outstretched fingers. Her hand is warmer than I expected it to be, and soft. “You know, it’s odd, I see you every morning and yet we’ve never spoken until now.”

“I know, it’s strange. I’m not much of a morning person though. I sleep most mornings on the train, and I’m still kinda groggy and dopey until about ten am.”

I refrain from saying “I know” as the train pulls out from the station.

I saw your sweet smile
I heard your laughter
You're still here beside me
Everyday

Conversation flows easily, in tones just loud enough to be heard over the engines, and the half hour journey passes in what seems like only minutes. I offer to carry the box to her car, and she consents, leading me to a brown Corolla with a scratched windscreen, that somehow unsurprisingly, stands next to my own blue Mazda sedan.

“Is that your car?” she asks when I point it out. “It’s parked beside me every day; I wondered who the owner was.”

I confess that habit and routine are what draws me to this parking space every day, and until now I had no idea it was hers. This isn’t a lie, but something cements itself inside me. If a person were looking for signs, they wouldn’t have to look much further than this.

“Thank you,” she says for what must be the tenth time that day, “for being my savior all day. It was really nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” We shake hands again, and I walk to the drivers’ door of my car. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

'Cause I know you by heart

And I will. My alarm will sound at the same time, I will drag myself out of bed with the same groan, I will take the same eighteen minutes to get myself ready. I will arrive at the station with a lit cigarette in hand at the same time as usual, and I will take my usual position on my usual bench against my usual wall.

But the routine will change slightly from there. Something tells me that rather than take a window seat on the side of the carriage closest to the platform, I’ll be on the opposite side on the aisle.

And I doubt very much that I’ll be alone.

'Cause I know you by heart

Oh gosh, oh gosh, what a lovely day to start my morning!
First of all, a story from Jay is a story from Jay is a story from Jay, and I gotta sa, I sooo enjoy how you can switch from the style of our longer stories to this one.

I mean, there' something different in it, and not just because tjis story is narrated from the point of view of a man.

I'll tell you why I particulartly enojoyed this one: being a regular on trains, I take always the same one at half past seven on monday morning, change at 8 AM, gt to my destination at twenty to ten, and back on Friday aftrnoons.

So, I tend to meet always the same people, and with some of them I've never shared a word, but after hree years, you tend to cross glances and nod your head, and when some of them are missing for a while you notice it.

I've always notice if they notice when I am not there.

Anyway, there is always strange in the communion of sharing a habit, and I've often toyed around the idea of writing a story on this topic.

That is why i enjoyed this one so much, I can really relate to it, plus, it's written with this lovely, pondering and reflexive style that makes you notice all details and let them in.

Right, i rambled enough, but still...

well, I loved it!

Aw, I liked this very much, honey! I see your WB danced away a bit for you, and that is a good thing. The details made this story very rich, and I can see how they were able to get so into their respective routines for so long that they never even actually met until this one day. It is a series of destiny, cough, you knew I had to say it!

I loved your choice of song, very good fit!

And, there's poetry in this line, because it made me sigh in a happy manner. Your writing is beautiful!

Love love love, that is all I have for this little shorty song fic!

You will have to excuse me if I gush, but I can't help it. This was so wonderful and refreshing compared the to angsty goodness of Intimate Portrait.

I agree with Amber the details of this story make it so rich and so believable. Like this could happen to any one of us while riding public transportation.

I think that is one of the reasons I adored this so, for I am a creature of habit, I have just lately noticed this. I tend to ride in the same seat on the bus, as long as it is not taken, then I take my alternative seat. I park in the same area if I do park and ride. I sit in the same seat for my individual classes. I always use the same bathroom stall at the public restroom at school. Odd. Anyway, due to the repetitive nature, I can so see this clearly in my head. On my morning bus, I have come to pick out the regulars and after awhile you exchange the morning pleasantries by the way of a nod, or a quick smile as Anna mentioned.

It was brilliant to use Johnny as the narrator, it gave so much insight into the character of Jess.

Oh I am rambling, but the point is I adored this! Keep it up. I'll take another shorty like this, please and thank you. :love:

And, yet again, I can completely relate with your narrator. The choices that you make, you never know where they will lead, how they'll affect you or even your family and friends.

I really liked how you narrated this from Johnny's view. Funny how all it takes is one simple thing, like offering a lighter..

And now, I must go off and download this song. =)

:heartbeat:
Sam