Let Me Try

Music blared at an ungodly hour in the morning. The two twelve-year-old boys watched the performances, their eyes sparkling with excitement at what they saw: the glitter, the costume changes, and the sheer amount of silver, far exceeding that found in a vintage silverware shop. This was the Solstice Song Contest, an annual event where numerous countries send their best artists to compete against one another.

“Blake, you think song good?” Marco asked, his broken English slipping through.

“His voice is so powerful,” I replied. “But I think the staging will drag it down.”

“You think win?”

“It’s good. Top five maybe. But I think Monaco will win with Passion of Love.”

“Monaco… Eh… Staging grande!” Marco exclaimed shifting between Italian and English.

“Right! It’s so good,” I agreed.

“You think jury amano song?” he asked, mixing Italian and English once again.

“I think he will get enough jury points that when the public vote comes in, they will get over the top,” I explained.

I sat back down. Marco turned to me, a mischievous look in his eye—the affectionate gaze he only gave me when we were alone.

“We sing on stage,” he declared. I found myself unable to discern whether he was joking or suggesting we should sing on that stage, which was practically a joke in its own right.

“Australia isn’t in the competition,” I pointed out. “I would have to go to another country to participate. I don’t think I’ll ever have a shot at being on that stage.”

“I, Italia, you Australia,” Marco said, nodding emphatically. His suggestion was that we represent Italy and Australia, respectively.

“You are so lucky,” I said. “One day, you could compete in it.”

“Your voice better,” he insisted, cuddling up to me.

“Are you kidding? Yours is way better,” I laughed.

We laughed as we cuddled together, our attention quickly shifting back to the song competition. There was nothing we loved more than the Solstice Song Competition. Well, other than each other, of course.

This would be the last time we would be able to watch it together before Marco moved back to Italy. He was only here in Australia for six months, but that was enough time for a budding friendship and, dare I say romance. Well, given our age and inability to communicate fully with one another, our relationship amounted to holding hands and hugging. That still counts.

Marco leaned over and kissed my cheek. My face turned as red as a beetroot.

“You win,” he said, a wide grin spreading across his face, “I propose.”

That was quite the offer. But it was an impossible feat. That being said, how great would it be to sing on the same stage as him one day?

Seven Years Later…