“Sadness, I think. People say
I’m happy all the time, and I guess I am. It’s a lot simpler that way. So I’ll
challenge you to make me feel sad …”
I knew the song, then. An old
spiritual, “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” a little lower-pitched than
Marian Anderson’s version and less jazzy than Lena Horne’s, to suit my
contralto voice. “… nobody knows my sorrow …” I sang, pulling out all the
sadness wrapped around my bones like sinew and muscle. I sang to the G-d I
didn’t know if I believed in anymore, the one I gave up on when my parents, the
last of my family, died.
When I finished, I faced
silence. I looked back at the tall, slender Ichirou supporting the shorter,
stockier Weissrogue, who slumped with his head bowed. I heard a sniff from the
other side of the counter — Ayana and Greg stood there, with Greg’s face
streaked with tears and Ayana’s hand in his.
“I haven’t had a cry that good
since I was seven,” Weissrogue said shakily. “How long before this wears off?”
He wandered, dazed, back into the secluded booth; we all followed him.
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