Andy Shauf - You Remind Me - Megan Moghadam

The great thing about working on Art for Art has not only been witnessing the different interpretations of music and the ways they materialize but the occasional introduction to new Canadian artists. I have also been pleasantly surprised by how affective these projects have been, both in musical inspiration and in the final project. Megan's work only continues the trend and I hope you all enjoy her short story inspired by Andy Shauf's "You Remind Me".

Here is the song:

Here are Megan's thoughts:

This songs hold a different feel than that of the typical love song. When I think of the latter, all I get is twangy, country-style guitars and some guy either whining that his favourite dog has run away or that his one and only love is sleeping with his best friend's, neighbour's, sister's ex-boyfriend.

Andy Shauf goes about it in a different way: one that is soft, subtle but the meaning is inexplicably real. The humble mention of the little things that are noticed in someone the artist loves - not big Vegas-styled, neon signs going "She's got a great voice!" or "Look at those eyes!". The title phrase of "you remind me of everything I love" in itself is a sentence every girl would only dream of hearing some day and would dare to believe in the chance of it happening.

The following is what spurs from that. What you love embodied into a person and how one guy responds to it.

* * *

It's moments like these that I wish would just drag on forever, he thought to himself while lying on his back in his grandmother's attic. His thoughts twirled about his mind just as she would spin her hair about her finger. He would watch her quietly as the light bounced off the waves that fell down her back and about her shoulders in rivulets and would count himself fortunate. She would twirl and twirl, almost in a frenzy, pen in hand with eyes glued to her notebook. He loved how intently she wrote. 

Dust motes swirled in the air above their heads, glinting in the sun and whenever larger and more visible bits of it would come close to her, her eyes would light up and she would puff a mouthful of air to send it flying above their heads. 

The custard yellow wallpaper was curling in strips from the top where the glue had let loose from its binding. 'Round about four in the afternoon, when the sun came in through the skylight at just the right angle, the shadows were that of unspeakably beautiful art. Designs so unexpected in that battered and cluttered attic that it tended to transform the dingy space into something far more like a secret hideout that only the two of them knew about. 

The worn boards creaked as she recrossed her legs and readjusted her dress. She smiled and he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye, heart thunking in his ribcage just as hard as it ever had. 

"What?" He asked. 

"Oh, nothing." She continued to smile but he saw that it was steadily growing, small flashes of her teeth seen through her lips as she tried to fight the grin. 

He closed his eyes, himself repressing a laugh and smiling, shook his head. 

She was so unlike any other with her simply worn volumes of hair and that quirky humour. It wasn't a matter of dazzle and gleam that plagued the rest of the women he knew but it was quiet confidence and eclectic garb that caused the second glance. It was only after the first conversation that he had learned about the strange tastes in music, but even that was a raised hand in her favour. 

In the midst of a funeral, among the somber, weeping (and frequently pompous) attendees, she would be standing in a violet sundress, playing with a straw hat in her hands. Everything held beauty to her, something that was osmotically transferring to him. It was a hint of optimism at every turn, one of the "this makes her beautiful" characteristics: she was a breath of fresh air - one that he could never seem to get enough of, to drink her in... her hair, her scent, her skin. 

He opened his eyes. She was still grinning but now looking at him. Her eyes bore into his, deep green and as difficult to read as her smile. 

"What?" He asked again, still gazing at her. 

She blinked and looked back at the dust motes. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose I was thinking about what it would take for you to kiss me." 

"You could have just done it yourself, you know. I wouldn't have objected." 

"Oh, but that's entirely missing the point. That would mean that I would have to take the initiative and I hardly want to do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm the girl. I'm supposed to be swept off my feet." 

"Well can I kiss you now then?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because you gave me warning. It needs to be spontaneous. Unexpected. Through the surprise comes the exhilaration, not having a week's notice. Where's the thrill in that?"

She was something else. 

"Well you could have... oh never mind."

"What?" She asked, turning her head again to look at him. 

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Ah, that frustrates me."

"I know."

"Then why do you do it?" She demanded, lifting up to prop herself on her elbow. Her smell came with her and collided with his nose sending butterflies through his stomach. 

"Just because. I like your reaction."

"Why you infuriating--"

He grabbed ahold of the side of her head, wrapped his fingers around her hair and pulled her in for a kiss. 

"See? Now there is the thrilling delight." She breathed as she lay back when he let go of her. 

He just laughed.

* * *

Megan Moghadam is a third-year nursing student at the University of Calgary. On top of writing, Megan loves scarves, worn books, tea and Great Britain. You can find more of her writing at her blog. Click here. For more of Megan, see the contributors page.

For more on Andy Shauf, see his website.