Earworm
A little tune bobbed through the hedges. The singer, a woman in a red hat, sang the words. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
Behind the hedge there was a man in thick denim. He trimmed the hedge and heard the woman singing. The tune wormed its way into his mind. For the rest of the day he was singing, “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
When he went home, he was singing the song. He closed the door behind him and went to the bedroom, all along singing the tune. There he kissed his ill wife on the forehead and asked what she would like for dinner. Order placed, he walked away.
She remained, and went back to reading. It was hard lying in bed all day. It was harder being sick. As she read, she started humming a tune. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
The door opened and her doctor came in. Just dropping in for a checkup. She asked her all sorts of questions. The visit was short, just checking in, and as the doctor drove away, she was humming a tune to herself, a tune that made her feel sad. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
The next day she was in early. The lab results would be back any second. If there was good news, she wanted to share it right away. If there wasn’t…she would share that too. As she walked the halls of the hospital, she sang that sad little tune.
She walked past a janitor, who cocked his head as she walked by. That tune. He remembered it from a long time ago. That day, as he worked hard to clean the halls and bathrooms of the hospital, he sang that little song to himself. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
Leaving the hospital, an older man hurried up. He could not wait to be gone. He hated hospitals. They poked and prodded him, asked im if he had been keeping to his diet, which he had never been able to keep. They knew it. He knew it. Bastards. As he got into his car, he turned on the radio. The tune he sung was not the song on the air. It was a different one. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
He stopped by a restaurant and ordered himself a burger. Real food. That’s what he needed. As his waiter asked for his order, he was humming the tune.
The waiter walked back to the kitchens with a spring in his step. The last customer gave him a gift. An old tune that he hadn’t thought about in years. Not since his grandmother passed. She loved the song. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
Back out, he came to his next customer. A woman in a red hat. He tune died on his lips. “One day, one day you will be mine, baby.”
She smiled wide. “I’ve been thinking about that song all week. I can’t get it out of my head. What’s your name?”
She was a beautiful woman. The server smiled and thanked the memory his grandmother.
Michael Frutig 