Two Songs

Two Songs

Her body is risk in motion, her skin coloured in by the music. Smooth, seamless, a symphony of sensuality. A little life in the darkness.

I love her in that temporary way, her imperfections that the low light somehow enhances. I trace a finger delicately down a stretch mark; little highways leading to connection. She shivers a little, in a way that must be real.

The beat is at once relaxed and urgent. Rhythm blends with the necessity of being. Her breath in my ear. Gentle, then forceful. Optional, but insistent. And rush of blood, and…

Later I drive home, change, and slip into bed. I do not shower. I rub the pillow against my neck; the glitter twinkles in the low light. I inhale her scent as my thoughts turn to dreams.

In the morning the house is light and airy and the sunbeams dance through the living room. I stare at my coffee and absorb the easy silence, while the soft scent of dust wafts around me. I think about cleaning up.

In the shower I think about her, touch myself. The songs loop in my mind, overpowering, like strong perfume.

In my bedroom my shirt is on the floor, collar sparkling. As I pick it up I notice a long, blonde hair. It shimmers in the light as I hold it, delicately, between my shaking fingers.

The morning slides on, with nothing to do but sit and think and watch terrible TV.

The fence is not broken but I mend it anyway, sweating in the heat. I want to take my shirt off but the neighbours are barbecuing. From over the fence comes the tang of mesquite and the piercing laughter of children as they rocket through the world. A murmur of conversation I cannot quite make out.

Back in the house I look through the window and wonder what the barbecue is for. Perhaps the plain joy of being with friends and family. I decide to shower again, because I have time. As I walk to the bathroom I pass the wall calendar, with its Playmate of the Month, but I do not look at it.

I brush my fingertips over the address book next to the phone. Shaking my head I move to the bathroom, let cool water wash over me, carrying my thoughts away down into the black hole beneath my feet.

Once when I was a child it was my turn to open the advent window, but when I did there was no piece of candy, only an empty plastic square shaped like a reindeer. My mother shrugged and said ‘oh well’, and I knew that was the end of it.

For a task I drive to the ATM and check my balance. In the drugstore I buy cigarettes and chat to the girl at the counter until another customer looks at their watch and she has to get back to work.

I like polite people the best. There’s no need in the world for rudeness.

Back at home I go outside and sit in the shade and listen to the voices bouncing over the fence and smoke a cigarette and stare at the ATM receipt and think about payday and how long until can I see her again.

I remember, on the TV there are ads for donating plasma, fifty bucks a pop. The clinic downtown next to the vape store that used to be a Blockbuster. I release the last sweet smoke from my lungs, go inside, pick up my car keys.

End