Flash fiction: Terry McKee can't sing but…

I Can’t Sing but That Doesn’t Mean I Don’t Love You

 
I’m driving down the road, on my way to the market to get something for dinner, singing along with a love song on the radio, even though I know I can’t sing, still that doesn’t stop me from singing. I want to sing in the worst way, always have. Fortunately for the guy in the next lane, my windows are up.

“Life isn’t fair,” my mother always said. She was so right! My sisters sing beautifully. “Angels”, she called them.

They sound like Leona Lewis, with such incredible range. And they know to dance like her too, as if they’re making love with the wall. Another thing I’d really like to do well, but I’m the queen of klutz. That saying about walking and chewing gum fits me to a T and just forget doing it in stilettos, like Leona. An untied sneaker is my equivalent to running with scissors.

It’s incredible when someone opens their mouth and sound so spectacular comes out, especially if she has less than mediocre speaking voice. Looks become unimportant as well, a person can forget all about the face when the singer’s languishing between the music and lyrics, fully entrenched in its meaning, but oh my, if they are pretty. The combination is breath-taking, a sure fire hit.

Tone deaf and un-coordinated, I can’t do anything of the things I want to do. Somehow I missed out on the dancing and singing genes and now that’s all I want to do, sing. Love songs, hate songs, rock and roll, folk ballets, any song, just as long as I can sing it. I’ll do anything that proves I have some special talent.

Then you touch my arm and laugh, “You can really belt it out.”

“It’s for you,” I say, “sorry it’s not very good.”

Then I realize I don’t have to be good and just because I can’t sing doesn’t mean I can’t get what I want. You’re still sitting next to me, besides singing is fun.

“That doesn’t matter, you’re still my angel,” you tell me and kiss my hand as if I’m royalty.

With my best flirty eyes, I ask, “So what do you want for dinner?”



* Terry McKee lives in southern Florida, with her husband, three dogs, two horses, numerous lizards and six dragon flies.

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