| |
It was an amazing thing the first time I spoke to him. He made me sit down as if I would fall if I didn’t, and took my breath away as he continued whatever he was saying at the moment. It was everything about him – his voice, what he said, how he said it. Particular inflections made me melt into a puddle of ooze, sliding slowly onto the floor with a sunny, orange smile on my face. I say the smile was orange because that was one of the colors he reminded me of. Sometimes he was blue, too, which was serenity, not sadness. His voice came out in colors, it seemed to me, and I often wondered if he was a very potent form of LSD.
His hands fascinated me, too. They were so much rougher than mine, and gnarled, dark, with traces of hair flying over them, curling under. They were always dry, and usually on me somewhere. They were on my hands sometimes, or briefly on my arm. It was always accompanied by a smile (which made me melt, too). My favorite place for his hands was in my hair. He would stroke it, pat it, twist it, play with it, and make it look good again when he was done. It was like basking in the sun when he did it, feeling like a Cheshire cat; total contentment. He never quite understood why I loved that so much, but I did. I always had, I would explain to him – I’d always loved to have my hair played with, but of course it was different when he did it.
He was so perfect in every way. I would watch him sashaying down the hallway, when he thought I couldn’t see him, and his face was lit up, smiling and laughing. His light gray eyes twinkled always, and were truly the windows to his soul – they reflected everything, like deep pools that shone inside him and out. His dark hair was always everywhere but where he wanted it to be. His waist fell low, and his arms and legs were muscular – not wrestler-kind of muscular, but toned.
The most brilliant thing was that we shared a passion for the same instrument. We were nearly evenly matched (though it depended on what piece we were playing, of course), and had spirited, fun competitions from time to time. There was never any winner, just two people who had fun.
I liked to watch him play because he was so much bigger than I, and he emanated so much more power than I did. He would scoop the viola up to his shoulder, lift the bow, almost daintily, and set it on the string. He would pause momentarily, always, to gather his bearings, then begin, loudly, strongly, powerfully. His hand moved in perfect vibrato, his large fingers swiveling over the strings and his tendons arching. The instrument sang with sweet, loud music. He played using his entire soul, every last bit of feeling, and would sometimes become entirely drained by the time he was finished. It was incredible to watch him because he had not only talent, but a deep love for what he did.
I had love for it, too, and there was nothing so sweet as when we played a duet, in our soft, lonely moods, which were really not loneliness at all, but something so deep that it could only be expressed through the music.
When I was feeling somewhat distracted, he would always take my chin in his strong hand, which was callused from pressing the strings, and just look at me. Then he would scoop up his instrument and begin to play a powerfully strong medley that should be a ballad. It was almost never a real song; he would make up a beautiful tune right there, to serenade me.
Sometimes he would begin to sing softly, too. He would recite poetry that he made up on the spot, which didn’t always fit with the music. And we would laugh together, and I would feel our connection, which was serene and perfect in every way. It would still take my breath away when I thought about those soft, silky afternoons we spent together, talking and playing, sometimes exploring, without our instruments. But we were never too far from music.
One day, when the wind was cool and smooth, we ventured out to a café, hand in hand, entering slowly. I felt like an explorer as we took a table in back and sat to listen to the soloists. I was so inspired that I started to cry, an unusual occurrence. But he understood that, knew why I cried, and simply took my hands, held them up on the table, elbows propped. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me. But when we left the café, he held me closer, squeezed me more gently, knew I was human after all. That led to the most beautiful improvisation ever, once we got back to his apartment. He told me he felt so soft and vulnerable towards me now, that he just couldn’t explain in words. But, oh, I got the point.
And how beautiful it is – and he is. I knew later that we would celebrate (as we celebrated everyday) once we realized what had been coming on us so long. As we separated (temporarily), only one thought held us both: it would happen again.
|
Help Us Stop Plagiarism -
Nearly all works at PnP are original. However a few people choose to plagiarize.
To check, choose a phrase from the work, then either drag and drop to the search box or copy and paste.
click on search and works at Google will be shown which match. Just to be sure, please do this before
you recommend or rate the work highly...
|
 |
|
|
|
Select a Random Work
from Stories
|
|
Welcome !
