NEW NOIZ by Bexa Lala

They'd met at the opera, of all places. He hadn't been in years, but a friend dragged him out, said it’d do him good. She’d been there, standing next to that same friend, shifting from foot to foot in a short black dress, already bored before the curtains opened. He knew the type. Too young to care about the music, but too polite to walk out. Their eyes caught once or twice over drinks. Not much else needed to be said.

Now, a few days later, they were driving through some backwoods, his old car grumbling along dirt roads. The windows were down, autumn air rushing in, leaves turning gold on the trees. She was beside him, talking, talking, talking, her voice bouncing like loose change in the cupholder. He wasn’t really listening, but he liked the sound of it. It reminded him that the world still moved outside the walls of his apartment.

They stopped in a clearing where the trees huddled closer, like they were watching. He killed the engine, turned to her, and they just sat there for a minute. The silence was thick between them, something real finally settling in. He lit a cigarette, offered her one. She took it, but held it like it might bite her, like she wasn’t used to the taste of smoke and ash.

"You don’t talk much, do you?" she asked, staring out at the trees.

“I talk enough,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose.

She laughed at that. It wasn’t a real laugh, more like a reflex, something to fill the space. But her eyes caught his again, and this time they didn’t look away.

He started the engine again, drove deeper into the woods, the road getting narrower, darker. The trees loomed taller, the forest closing in. They didn’t say much after that, just the hum of the tires on gravel, the occasional drag of his cigarette. They came to another stop, this time by a small, forgotten lake. The water was black, a flat sheet of nothingness.

"Why’d you come with me?" he asked, staring straight ahead.

"Why’d you ask me to?" she shot back.

He shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do.”

She turned to him, her face softening for the first time since they'd met. “I guess I needed something to do,” she said. Her voice had dropped, lost that edge. She leaned in a little, just enough so he could smell the perfume on her neck. He didn’t move at first, just let her get close, let the moment hang there like a broken promise.

He flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window, leaned back in his seat. "We’re both just killing time, huh?"

She nodded, biting her lip. The silence was heavy now, but it didn’t feel awkward. They’d found a rhythm, something slow and sad and inevitable. He could feel it in his chest, that old familiar ache, the one that came when you knew you were about to fuck things up, but you did it anyway.

He reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull away.

The night was coming on fast, and the forest around them was nothing but shadows and the faint whisper of wind through the trees. It didn’t matter, though. Not to him. Not to her.

Maybe they'd drive back in silence. Maybe they'd pull off the road again, somewhere darker, somewhere quieter, where nobody could see or care. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d go back to their separate lives, pretend nothing had changed.

But for now, they just sat there, together, not saying anything.

The kind of silence that makes sense when you’ve been alive long enough to know you’re not saving anybody, not even yourself.

Just music.

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