Dare
Out Of The Silence

- “Hey, hi!”
- “Hi!”.
- “How are you? It’s been a while since we last saw each other.”

5 full minutes of bullshit. Eternal. Huge grains of sand clumsily descend from the hourglass; as slow as those immobile instants that precede the final exams. They get stuck in the glass, and by doing so, they magnify the pauses. I remain at the mercy of those annoying dead times of embarrassing silence in which I can even hear a pigeon pecking at the pavement a few dozen meters ahead. Freeze. You look well, I say with a fake smile: as camouflaged as a steaming turd on fresh snow. Thank you, she replies while holding the hand of the kid trying to crack the sidewalk to hide his nervousness. He stutters and almost blushes, keeping his gaze low. I don't recognize her. Who the hell are you now? Work, she whispers? Good. I'm glad, she says, nodding. I try to see the bright side. We're not using formalities: it's something already. I’m just waiting for the pathetic closing line. I feel it coming when the radical chic kid gives her a barely perceptible kick with his Clark shoes, which cost at least 250 euros. A tap on the shin: in that gesture, I clearly see written in Arial 18 bold, italic, and uppercase “say goodbye to this loser of your ex who even has a bit of an unkempt beard: I want to buy a nice shirt.” He pulls her by the collar and she, his copy, doesn’t even bark in timid protest.

- “Well, sorry but I really have to go now. Let’s catch up one of these days.”
- “Sure; no problem.”

It’s a truly sad moment when the awareness that you are experiencing a goodbye suddenly feels tight in your hands. They are already far, ready to loot the city's trendiest shops, with La Repubblica in hand, and I digest the evident end of the period of reflection. I should be used to it by now, but that feeling just won’t go away: they seem like little stones lodged in my esophagus. Next time I see them, I’ll take another street to avoid another pathetic revival like the one mentioned above. You don’t even know why; you didn’t really fight with hysterics and plates dancing on the floor. You’ve slipped down a sloped plane, but now you’ve truly become strangers. Strangers who once knew each other: like elementary school classmates.

I get in the car and put in the CD she liked so much. And how could you blame her? It’s a must-have of melodic rock from the '80s. Sugary melodies with a creamy, muffled production capable of smoothing guitar riffs and enhancing solos that emphasize the chorus repetitions. Execution technique, author’s melody, and Darren Wharton’s alluring voice make Dare's “Out Of The Silence” a record to pass down through generations for those who appreciate the genre. It flows, as usual, smoothly as I twist my neck at the wheel. I rise in height following the reflective mid-tempo “Nothing Is Stronger Than Love” and “Into The Fire”: a triumph of keyboards, backing vocals, and crescendos with a dash of melancholy. I see her dancing in my memories when “Runaway” comes on: damn, how she loved to let loose to this cheerful and well-structured march. How I loved watching her move like a clumsy rock star. Often, giving me sweet eyes, she’d request an encore; obviously, by then she had already pressed the button to replay it with a laugh. I pull over, open the door, and close my eyes. I have no idea which road I’m on. I sit on a bench: the evening traffic doesn’t touch me in the slightest. It’s almost sunset; the air is crispy, and “Under The Sun” brings to mind everything I no longer have with each refrain turn. More and more. 3 repetitions of the song are enough for me.

I take the CD in hand and throw it into the field below. It flies for a while: it seems like gravity forgot about it, before the rustling descent among a cushion of leaves, branches, and maybe a few brambles. Happiness, I tell myself, must be undoubtedly around the next bend. I truly think so as I look at the windshield. And I almost believe it.

Ilfreddo