Her Name Songtext

von 2NU

I should have asked her what her name was.
She looked up from her glass of wine, obviously quite bored with the conversation she was painfully being patient with. Our eyes met, and we both smiled that smile - you know - the smile that indicated we both really didn't know what we were doing in that group of stuffy unrelated socialites. Before the evening took its toll with its reckless mediocrity, I finally approached her. I whispered softly into her ear, "I know a great place where it's illegal to be bored." She said she knew of a place more interesting than that, and I believed her.
We drove away in quest of that fresh breath of life. Funny, there was not one word of conversation from the time I closed her door until we stopped at a quaint little establishment called, "Mildred's." The food was marginal; the wine was great. There was nothing overly romantic about our four-hour conversation. She was reluctant to expose much about herself, but then I really didn't notice at the time. The chatter was bright, the atmosphere was extremely relaxing. Such a relief from the previous engagement hours earlier.
The evening had come to an end before I realized it. As I dropped her off at an apartment complex about midway through the city, we didn't really say goodbye. We just kind of exchanged smiles. She then gracefully headed up the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.
As I drove the usual mindless journey I normally drove to my comfortable flat on the edge of town, I thought about her, and the amazing comfort I found in her. A smile of thought spread across my face as I stuck my key into the lock. The smile quickly disappeared when I found that my key was not doing what it normally did - open the lock.
After a half-hour struggle, I surmized that there simply must be something wrong with the lock, so I quickly used the car phone and called one of those poor, miserable souls who list their phone number under "locksmith, 24-hour service." An hour later, he arrived with his hand out - cash before service.
About thirty seconds and he had my door open. I sent him on his way with a five-dollar tip, walked in the door, flicked on the light, and realized I had either walked into the wrong house or someone was really messing with my mind.
A quick search of the premises confirmed the right location; a quick search of the house confirmed something was terribly wrong. Nothing was mine. Not even the paint on the wall. And earlier that evening, I knew that I had owned more than just a simple wooden chair for furniture. A quick sweat formed on my brow, and my heartbeat began roaring like thunder. A strong, familiar scent filled my nostrils, and the suddenly haunting features of her striking face filled my mind.
I'm glad it required just three digits to dial the police; panic had set in like hot fire, crawling up my spine. A lone car arrived a few minutes later with a couple of rookies who were doing their time on the late night shift. While one of the officers took down a report, the other officer shuffled outside for a look around. A strange clock on the wall ticked away; for me it sounded like the steady pound of a hammer on metal.
The report finished, the officer was just about ready to head out the door, when his buddy popped through, obviously trying to look controlled, but visibly shaken. His words spilled out with a stammer: He found a man outside the house, dead with wounds in the back.
Now I sit in an attorney's office, trying to put pieces of this huge puzzle together: I'm a suspect in the murder of a man I've never seen before. The inside of my house and the contents within have been exchanged for that of another human being - I think. There is no such place as "Mildred's." A strange lady's perfume and her image linger in my mind. That same lady - the one who suddenly appeared in my life - had suddenly become an very integral part of life. That same lady could also be my alibi. But I never did ask her what her name was.