YOU DO SOMETHING TO ME by PAUL WELLER Story by Martina Medica

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YOU DO SOMETHING TO ME by PAUL WELLER Story by Martina Medica

Martina Medica
Melbourne, June 2000

“Need a cigarette,” he muttered, shrugging off both me and the blanket, and climbing off the mattress. He was wounded; a deer bit in the haunch by words as sharp as lupine teeth. They were my teeth, my words, but I hadn’t meant them to sink quite so deep.

In the dim blue light coming from the TV screen, I watched as he shuffled over to the window. He opened it with one hand, using his other to flick a cigarette from the pack tucked away on the sill. I followed the tremble in his hand as he brought a lighter up to the cigarette, then noticed it in his lips as he took his first drag. Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, holding it in until the shaking stopped. Without opening his eyes, he turned and leaned against the window sill, releasing the smoke from the warmth of his mouth into the wintry air.

I watched him from the mattress on the floor, in the middle of the barely furnished room. A TV, an armchair, a mattress. I’d never asked him why he didn’t have more stuff in his flat. But then, he’d never asked me why I didn’t have more time. It was just the way it was. A hint of morning, a piece of afternoon, a trace of evening. Everything around us felt fast and fleeting, as if the next time I came he might be gone; as if one day I would leave and never come back.

What we lacked in things and time, though, we made up for in moments. He fed me tea and toast when I was unwell, our shoulders pressed tightly together as we sat up against the wall. I fell in love with England hearing it on his tongue while he read me his poems in the afternoon sun, the two of us lazing in the armchair. We shared goodbye kisses, whispered and rushed, standing by the door where he’d kissed me so carefully and deliberately the first time.

If we had hours rather than minutes, we would listen to music through the tinny TV speakers, tucked up together under blankets on the mattress, arguing over the best of British. Morrissey? God no! Too depressing. Paul Weller? Hmmmm. Not The Jam. But Style Council were ok.

Hold on, he’d said. Let me play you some of his solo stuff.

The guitar was aching melancholy and heartbreak; the voice molasses and whisky and grit. I listened to it on repeat for days after.

You do something to me
Something deep inside
I’m hanging on the wire
For a love I’ll never find

I put it on that evening, as I was sat there watching the blue light caress his back. Although he didn’t turn around, the muscles in his shoulders tensed for long enough for me to know that he’d heard it. Climbing off the mattress, I stood, hesitating, wanting to fix and soothe, but not entirely sure he’d let me.

I approached him delicately, my wounded deer; jittery and skittish, but so strong, so beautiful, so proud. His bathrobe was wrapped around me loosely, and as I neared the open window I shivered, the cool air brushing over the bits of my skin it could reach. He didn’t move, but I knew he was aware of me from the way he’d cocked his head. I softened my steps as I drew near, not wanting to scare him away. My arms slipped carefully around him from behind, and I rested my head gently against his back. His body remained rigid and tense, but I held him anyway, quietly singing the words into his skin, stitching his wound back together.

You do something wonderful
Then chase it all away
Mixing my emotions
Throws me back again

I wove I’m sorry and I love you into him as I sang, and he sighed against me, letting me coax him out of his hurt. He forgave me wordlessly, gripping my fingers against his chest with one hand while putting out his cigarette with the other, before he turned around and pulled me to him. We swayed gently towards the end of the song, creating another moment to add to our collection.

Dancing through the fire
Just to catch a flame,
Just to get close to,
Just close enough,
To tell you that
You do something to me
Something deep inside

Martina Medica is a writer, linguist, mother, singer and songwriter living in the foothills of the Dandenong Ranges, Victoria.

By | 2017-09-09T20:55:40+00:00 September 8th, 2017|Featured Posts, Pop, Rock, Singer-songwriters|7 Comments

7 Comments

  1. Ines September 9, 2017 at 8:23 am - Reply

    Just beautiful…. I can visualise everything.

    • Martina September 10, 2017 at 10:42 pm - Reply

      I’m really pleased to hear that. Thanks so much for reading.

  2. msdebbie September 9, 2017 at 1:46 pm - Reply

    Lovely story and song

    • Martina September 10, 2017 at 1:44 pm - Reply

      Thanks so much for reading.

  3. A Mandarin September 10, 2017 at 5:27 am - Reply

    Amazing. Beautifully written. Promise me you’ll keep writing xx

    • Martina September 10, 2017 at 10:41 pm - Reply

      Thanks so much for reading. That’s the plan! :-)

  4. Nev September 11, 2017 at 5:25 am - Reply

    Keep writing young lady, you are very talented xx

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