Peter's Pedestal

Hi, I'm Peter Tettrick. As far as life goes, I'm a pretty uninteresting character; I'm just trying to get by. A drunk once told me that my name fitted my face. Peter Tettrick was the best way to describe how I looked to her. It was nonsense, but somehow I understood what she meant. I have sharp features. A strong jaw line. A pointy nose. High cheek-bones. My name is quite sharp, too. It's those 't's that do it. Well, right now I find myself back in that same bar where the drunkard told me I resemble my own name. Here's to the foresight of my parents - I take a drink from my plastic container of flat beer, served at room temperature and cast my eyes towards the stage. A girl sits alone on a tall bar stool, guitar on lap and a harmonica hanging from her neck. I fell instantly. Her olive-skinned face was framed by a head of finely straightened long black hair and her eyes glimmered beneath the stage lights. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I watched her mouth intensely. The way her lips parted to reveal perfectly-straight white teeth and a smile. The words just fell out from between them in the form of a beautifully soulful voice. I was falling in love and growing hard. Watching her lips was causing me to stir. I had to snap out of it. I turned back to the bar to order another beer followed by a shot of tequila. I had to shake the thoughts that were dirtying my mind and dirtying the angel gracing the stage.

"Hey, nice watch." My attention was drawn to a pretty little red-head staring up at me.

"Pardon?"

Pointing to my wrist, she repeated herself, "nice watch".

She smiled and offered to pay for my drinks. She ordered a shot of dark rum for herself and drained it in one go, holding her mouth and swallowing hard to suppress the obvious burn. I felt for her. Who was she trying to impress? It couldn't be me, surely.

"So, what's your name, Sugar?" She wanted to continue the conversation further.

"Peter, it's Peter Tettrick."

"It suits you."

"Oh, not you too? What's with this place?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind"

I took a drink and turned my back to the bar and, quite rudely, tried to shut her out. I just wanted to listen to the music. More than that, I wanted to watch this mysterious guitar girl. I fantasised about what it would be like to be talking to her at the bar instead of this red-headed watch fanatic who seems to agree that my face matches my name. I'd just have to be patient and wait for her set to be over and offer to buy her a drink and commend her for her performance. I couldn't wait.

In the break between two songs, I heard the sound of footsteps walking away from me. It was the pretty red-head finally giving up. I didn't know what to think of that. Any other night I'd be heartbroken that she was gone. I would've adored her attention, but tonight was something else. I had my eyes on a higher prize. One that would've seemed all too unobtainable if it wasn't for the smiles she was aiming directly at me whenever she looked out into the audience and made eye-contact with me. My legs turned to jelly, but I put that down to the tequila. And then it was over. She stopped singing, packed up her guitar, walked off the stage and straight out of the front doors. It was shattering. She didn't hang around for any of the other acts. She didn't hang around for any praise. She didn't hang around for me. Such a self-righteous act, and with it she slipped straight off her pedestal. Now the throne is empty and even the red-head is gone. My name is Peter Tettrick, and I am a fool.