Silent Expression

The crisp fall winds are unforgiving this season. 

Every gust feels like a knife’s blade hacking into my skin, and the warm sweat streaming from my pores feels like blood. But like the masochist I am, I continue running against the violent breeze until I reach Cobra Valley, the best place to view the sun’s remarkable descent. 

As I watch the orange-tinged skies slowly melt into calming darkness, a song from my Running Jams playlist, coincidentally titled “The Blood” by The Cure, fills my ears. The jaunty guitar and drum beat flawlessly match the pace at which my feet collide with the emerald-green Earth. My legs propel themselves forward like a well-oiled machine, even though they’re on fire. I’m beyond exhausted, but this indescribable feeling, paired with this song, is nothing short of invigorating. 

This tune has one of the catchiest hooks, but I never sing along. I’m literally incapable, and even if I could, I’m sure my voice wouldn’t sound as good as Robert Smith’s. But it’s not like I would know. I haven’t spoken aloud in over ten years, and I don’t remember the sound of my voice anymore. Although I can’t talk, I’ve never viewed my disability as an inconvenience. It’s more of a blessing. Not only do I despise vapid conversation, but words are tedious, and more often than not, they aren’t used appropriately—especially by me. 

I’ve hurt others something awful with my words and have witnessed others hurt by miscommunication. Whoever came up with that “sticks and stones” rhyme probably had a limited vocabulary or perhaps didn’t want to admit something intangible like words could cause detrimental emotional damage. But words do mean things. Because of my inability to cushion the brashness of my speech, I’ve lost several close friends and relationships. I’ve tried other communication methods, but they often end in more misunderstandings and frustration. 

Why speak at all when it invites the possibility of spreading even more pain? 

My calves continue to burn as I push against the steep half-mile hill; it’s the last stride until I reach the peak viewing point. Sharp, cool air fills my lungs, intensifying the internal flames cooking my chest. I take meticulous breaths to douse the heat as I lengthen my steps. My fitness bag bounces against my sticky back, sloshing around the water in my Hydro Flask. I lick my cracked lips but don’t dare stop for a drink. 

Keep going, I tell myself.

“The Blood” ends, and “Runnin’ Up That Hill” by Kate Bush trickles through the Airpods lodged in my ears, injecting me with instant adrenaline. As I swing my arms to shoot up the remainder of the slope, I focus on the sun-tinged peak less than 100 meters ahead, where my gorgeous view awaits.

The sun’s harsh rays pierce my eyes, blinding me, but I feel the ground leveling underneath. I don’t need to see anything until I’m there. So close! Just a little further….just start sprinting. Faster, faster, until…

Bam!

I fly back with incredible force and land on my tailbone, a squeal of pain escaping me.

A figure illuminated by the sun’s scarlet glow hovers over me, waiting. It extends a hand, but I can only stare through squinted eyes like a dumbfounded idiot. 

The figure, I realize, is only a boy—no, ‘boy’ isn’t accurate. He’s a man with facial hair and an aura of maturity—most boys would simply apologize and continue on their way. He’s attractive, though usually not my type—too much facial hair. The man waves the hand he offered in front of my face to break my daze. 

“Are you okay?”

Finally, I recover and take his hand. He pulls me to my feet with one mighty yank, and when I’m upright, I connect with a set of striking gray-blue eyes. My heart skips. 

Damn, he’s a lot cuter than I thought. Of course, I had to fall ass-first in front of him.

I shake away my weak, girlish thoughts. What am I saying…he ran into me!

“Hey, you good, or what?” 

His gentlemanly tone is gone, replaced by a hint of agitation. 

I look down and notice I’m still gripping his hand, but I can’t react fast enough when he pulls away first. A clear crease forms on his forehead as he bends to pick up something rectangular from the ground. 

“Is this yours?” A devious grin breaks out on his face. “Oh, wow, you still listen to Smash Mouth? What is it, the year 2000?”

I jump at the strange man, snatch my phone from his hands, and lock the screen, my face scorching with embarrassment.

How I want to scream at him, call him every name in the book, because how dare he?

Not only does he not understand boundaries, but who would dare make fun of Smash Mouth? He hasn’t apologized for running into me, either. Who is this jerk? I’m somewhat frustrated that I can’t demand answers, but that doesn’t matter now.

I’ve got a sunset to catch.

His voice floats through the breeze and into my ear as I push past him. 

“I’m so sorry I ran into you.”

The unexpected apology causes me to stop dead in my tracks. I half-turn and offer a smile and a shrug. 

He beams in response as if my acknowledgment was a source of joy for him. 

“I was just kidding, by the way,” he continues in a husky tone. “Smash Mouth is still top tier–my guilty pleasure band. You have pretty good taste; I couldn’t help looking.”

I turn to face him fully, now immersed in his astonishing praise. Facing him, I notice the Depeche Mode shirt hugging his ridged torso. It’s impossible to stop the slight smile on my lips—I’m impressed that he’s a fan of 80’s music, even though he looks like a late millennial.

At this point, I’ve decided to forgive him and show some sort of gratitude. I rarely communicate in any fashion, but I don’t want to be as rude as I initially perceived him to be and flat-out ignore him. 

I sign “thank you” and watch his cool expression melt into realization. To my surprise, he signs back, “You're welcome,” then flashes a set of pearly whites. I bite my lip to keep from smiling back–gotta admit he’s more attractive now that I know he’s learned ASL.

Should I try to ask his name?

I sign, “What’s your name?” His dazzling smile drops and is replaced with a look of sheepishness. 

Looking down, he kicks a nearby pebble. 

“To be real, ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ are all I know…but you were impressed for a second, weren’t you?”

I make a point to roll my eyes. It would be more impressive if you knew it.

He stares at me for a moment.

“You can’t speak.”

His directness takes me aback. But still, I shake my head no. 

I don’t know why, but it’s kind of bumming me out that I can’t speak to him. I can’t do it. I know whatever comes out of my mouth will be wrong. 

The man tucks a black strand of hair behind his ear and slides his phone from his pocket. He holds his phone out so the mic faces me. After a second, the familiar intro of Pearl Jam’s Jeremy bleeds into the quiet. 

God, I love this song, and it seems he does, too. I watch him as he nods his head in tempo with the grungy guitar and mouths the first verse with perfect timing. He looks me in the eyes and points to himself. 

Jeremy. His name is Jeremy. 

But why couldn’t he simply tell me his name? Is it because I am unable to share mine?

He points to me, then at his phone.

My name? Damn. 

I scramble to recover my phone from my gym bag, nearly dropping it again at his feet. My music app is still open, so I type in the song from which I was named and press play. Another moment passes, and after a lengthy guitar intro, Jeremy starts singing again.

“Layylaa,” He sings along with Derek and the Dominoes’ harmonious chorus. “It’s a beautiful name—Layla.”

I shiver with delight at the sound of my name on his tongue; then I sign “Thank you” in response.

“Looks like we were both named after songs,” Jeremy laughs. “I like my name, but the song is quite morbid. Your song is a love song, which is probably better.” 

I don’t know how to respond; not even a song could form the right words. Either way, I could listen to him speak all day. It’s been a while since I’ve heard someone say words with such a lack of restraint. He doesn’t tip-toe around, and that could seem rude to others, but I get him. He was like me when I used to talk–careless, free.

“I’m sorry for keeping you,” Jeremy says. “You must’ve wanted to catch the sunset. But it’s nearly dark, and I don’t want to be that creepy guy, so if you’ve gotta go home, I get it.”

I’d love to get off this mountain now that I’ve missed the sunset, but I’m not against spending more time with him, even if he’s the one who made me miss it.

As a gesture, I pull out my water bottle and pretend to drink it, then point at him.

“You want to grab a drink?” He asks, cocking his head to one side.

I nod, thrilled he understood my poor attempt at charades.

“Why the hell not?

Twenty minutes later, Jeremy and I arrive at the local bar, which we learn we share as a favorite. He proudly orders a whiskey and respects that I opt to order for myself, even though I silently point out my choice of wine. Either way, I think it’s thoughtful when someone doesn’t go uncomfortably out of the way for me. 

When our drinks arrive, Jeremy starts the conversation by playing “Whiskey in the Jar” by Metallica. Soon, we’re sipping away and headbanging on our barstools—the perfect icebreaker. Then, he begins grilling me in the best way possible. He asks me all sorts of questions about myself, and I find pleasure in looking for the best song to respond to. This communication game lasts for hours once we realize how vast our music tastes are. For every one of his questions, I have a song. For every song, he shares his ties to it. We could be here forever.

It’s mindblowing to think that I haven’t said one word to him or typed anything all day, yet he already knows more about me than some of my friends, all because he shares my eclectic taste in music and cares enough to communicate with me through it. Although we’re both regulars, I’ve never noticed him here, but now that I’ve met him, I wish I’d run into him sooner.

Jeremy and I fill the quaint bar with music and laughter, which continues until the bartender announces the last call. 

As the customers around us clear out the bar, we sip slowly at our drinks, exchanging longing looks between each sip. Jeremy’s steely eyes trail over me, and I gnaw at my bottom lip in response. Of course, I’m not ready to leave him yet. But how do I convey that? Is it obvious, or should I make a move? 

With a shaky hand, I brush his knee with my fingertips and watch his eyes glaze over, struggling to focus. His breaths deepen beside me, and I notice him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

He retrieves his phone from the bar counter and quickly plays a song I recognize within seconds–Dead or Alive’s “Come Home With Me Baby.”

The tune is upbeat and silly, but the lyrics are crystal clear.

Jeremy stands, and just as he had before, he offers me his hand. 

I take it without a second thought.

He leads me from the bar to his place, and we don’t waste much time. We burst through the door the moment he unlocks it, discarding our clothing by the entrance and crushing our desperate lips into one another. Under the pale moonlight shining through his skylight overhead, we explore each other as he plays me songs of beauty and desire. After, we lay in awe, the moonlight streaming over our naked bodies.

Jeremy catches his breath and rolls over to face me.

“I…have no words,” he gasps.

I put a finger to his soft lips, grab my phone on the bedside table, and look for the song.

Once I hit play, I wrap myself in his warmth, and we "Enjoy the Silence" together.