“I’m sorry I hit you,” I tell him. “You just scare the shit out of me.”
“I know. I knew you would be angry, but I needed your initials on my arm. That’s just how I felt. Feel,” he amends.
I ignore all that. The deed is done. I figure I must focus on damage control. “I need to know what you’re gonna tell people. What are you going to say they stand for?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Long Dong!” he exclaims. “Yeah, I’ll tell people they stand for Long Dong!” He seems very proud of his quick wit and laughs at his joke.
I’m pretty shocked by his perverted reply. I’ve never heard him say anything even slightly inappropriate. Then, I laugh too. That is actually pretty funny. Pretty stupid? Yes. But pretty funny too. Crisis averted, I hope.
Chapter Ten
How Does He Know?
I’m shaken from my memory as I hear that familiar jingle of the door, and I glance at my watch. It’s time for him to be here. I steal a glance over my shoulder. It’s him. My breath quickens as does my heart. It feels as if it will burst out of my chest any moment now. I watch him walk over to the coffee bar and joke around with the server. He looks so good. He’s wearing his leather, of course. It looks thoroughly worn and soft. I imagine myself running my hands up over his arms and the feel of his soft, supple leather. I don’t stop there, though. My hands run up his coppery neck, and I’m holding his face to plant a kiss on his velvety lips.
Holy shit!
I remember exactly how soft they felt. I run my hands through his now longer hair where it falls in disarray just above his collar. It is as black as midnight sin.
I try to stop daydreaming about him in this manner. Nah, that’s not what I want. Where this came from, I don’t know; but I’m enjoying it.
Just keep talking so I can keep checking you out, I will him.
His jeans are well worn, too. They are faded and frayed perfectly around the back pockets and seams. They fit him like a second skin, allowing me an unfettered view of his tight behind. My eyes are drawn to the shape his wallet has made, and I follow the chain around his hip. He’s still pretty slim but broader. He wears scuffed up black biker boots. He is not anything like anyone I’ve ever been attracted to. I’m usually drawn to the clean cut, athletic type. Of course, I haven’t been attracted to anyone in a very long time. I guess our tastes do change as we get older.
I see him start to turn towards the little platform where he will perform. I jerk around and scrunch down on the loveseat. I hear him readying his instrument and doing his sound check. I hear the canned music click off and Michael say, “Hey ya’ll. Thanks for coming out to Create Café tonight. I’m Mike Bang from the Big Bang Theory.” His voice forces me to swallow hard. It’s smooth yet raspy. Although he’s still full of contradictions, his voice has changed and is deeper, more mature. “If you have any requests, I’d love to hear them. If I know it, I’ll play it. If I don’t, well, I’ll try to play something similar,” he ends on a laugh and launches into a recent hit that has received lots of airtime lately.
I just sit and take it all in, closing my eyes to imagine his fingers skimming the chords. Are his eyes closed to revel in the music too? I remember how lost in the music he would get the couple of times I saw him pick on his guitar. His whole countenance would meld with the guitar, making him look like he was born with one in his arms, born to play that way. This song is so…darkly passionate.
I’d only ever felt that passionate about one thing in my whole life, yet I let it slip through my fingers. How did I do that? Oh, yeah. I didn’t allow myself to feel anymore. It’s hard to create when you’re numb.
I steal a glance at the patrons sitting across from me. They seem to be enjoying him play. The woman is really staring hard at Michael. She keeps trying to focus on what the man is talking to her about.
Distracting isn’t he? I think.
I chuckle to myself.
Eyes off, lady! He’s mine.
Well, I hope he will be anyway.
He wraps up that song and starts a slow build up to one of my favorite John Lennon songs. Oh, how does he know just what to play? John is seemingly apologizing for being overzealous. He’s saying it’s the only way he knows how to be, and she just needs to deal with it. Ha! Sounds very familiar.
I take out my journal and jot down the names of the songs in his first set. I love every song that he plays, and I never want to forget which ones I hear him play this first night. Some I remember from my youth, some are current hits, and one love song I don’t recognize at all. On his seventh song, I decide to let him know I’m here despite the overwhelming urge to curl up on the couch and let the butterflies, currently residing in my stomach, take over completely.
I draw my knees up on the seat and turn to the side, working my way up to turn completely around. My stomach suddenly pitches violently. I turn and sink back down on the couch. Tears spring to my eyes. All of those “what ifs” are back and taunting me. It suddenly feels like the first day of class in a new school, and I’m naked in front of everyone. I can’t just sit here all night and not acknowledge him. I feel like I’ve wasted enough precious time living without him in my life. It’s now or never. I bolster my resolve and turn a little more quickly this time so as not to change my mind.
I look across the room to make eye contact with him. He’s staring right at me—hard. He gives me a grin and a knowing look like he’s known all along I would be sitting right here on this very couch at this very moment in time. The look at once causes something in me to tense, but that is immediately replaced by a strange sense of calm. I smile back and fold my hands on top of the couch, resting my head on them and maintaining eye contact with him. After a couple of minutes, he seems to signal something to the server.
Suddenly, the server is standing in front of me, wanting to know if I would like anything.
“Oh, um…I already had a smoothie. I’m not sure. What else do you have?” I ask shakily.
He rattles off a list of drinks I’ve never heard of. I shoot an unsure glance towards Michael and ask, “Uh…What’s Michael drinking?”
He tells me the name of a very intense sounding concoction. That sounds exactly like Michael. I have a sudden query for the server, “Does he send drinks to a lot of females?”
He seems to consider my question for a moment, purses his lips, and says, “No, actually, you’re the first; and we’ve
been working together for a while.” He makes a tsking sound and appears thoughtful.
“I’ll just have what he’s having,” I stammer.
Once I have my drink, I lean back on the arm of the sofa and enjoy the rest of Michael’s set. He seems to have a pulse on the place because everyone is enjoying his music as they are doing a lot of clapping, singing along, and swaying back and forth. I’m immensely proud of him for pursuing his talent and his dreams.
I suddenly hear him launch into our Poison song.
Oh my! I wasn’t expecting that. I bite my lip and look at him. We keep eye contact throughout the entire song. Again, intense would be the proper adjective for the feelings passing between us. Does this mean I’m forgiven?
He wraps up his song, finally closing his eyes on the last note. I close mine too and turn back around on my couch. I sink into its comfortable embrace. I hear the canned music start back up. I feel him heading my way. I take a deep breath and say a little prayer that our first conversation in almost five years goes well.
Chapter Eleven
Off Kilter
He saunters over to stand in front of me. I open my eyes and look up at him. He really is gorgeous. I suddenly don’t know what to say. Small talk seems so pointless between us; however, I can’t lead with everything that has been flowing through my brain. My brow furrows. I can’t believe I didn’t plan that far ahead. That is highly unusual for me.
He interrupts my thought process, “You looked happy to see me a few minutes ago, Lorraina. Now I’m not so sure.”
Any thought about how to approach this conversation flies right out of my head. I shake my head a little and grin around my confession, “No, it’s not that. I suddenly recalled something odd.”
“Hmm…Mind if I sit down?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I move to one corner of the loveseat. I close my journal and slide it into my purse. I wish I’d thought of a more seductive opening. “How are you?”
He sits in his corner and throws his arm up on the back of the couch. He looks completely at ease while I feel like all my nerve endings are exposed. “Good, good. How are you, Lorraina?” Oh, my name on his lips. My heart skips a couple of beats. It has just the same effect as I remembered.
“I’m pretty good. Home for a visit. You sounded good up there.”
“Yeah, not too shabby, I hope. I’ve been playing
professionally for a few years now. We even started a band. It keeps me out of trouble.”
I haven’t stopped smiling since we started talking. My smile spreads on that note, though. “I’m glad to hear that, Michael.”
“So, what’s up with you and college? Aren’t you graduating soon?”
“I am but I’m going straight to law school, so I’m not really focusing on grad
uation like everyone else.”
“Really, law school?” His face wrinkles up like he’s smelled something foul. “I didn’t figure you for law school.” He seems embarrassed to have admitted that.
“Why not?” I’m wounded. Does he think I’m not smart enough or is it that my family is a walking contradiction to the law?
“I don’t know,” he shrugs and smiles a little. “I guess I just always imagined you writing or teaching or both.”
I relax, knowing he’s not insulting my intelligence. I feel silly thinking that’s what he meant; I should’ve known better. “I’d considered it, but there’s absolutely no money in it. I had to be more sensible than that, I guess.”
“Hmm…Well, what do you think of Mona’s transformation?” He holds his hands up to encompass the shop.
“I love it. I miss the old place, but this is really neat.”
“Yeah, I like it too. I’ve been playing here for quite a while. She’s been very good to me.”
“I’m so happy for you. You seem to be doing well.” Of late I’ve been a succubus. Would I mess this up for him by bringing to the surface old feelings?
“I am, I think. I have like four jobs and go to school full-time, but it’s good. Like I said, keeps me out of trouble,” he nudges my knee and winks at me. My knee tingles where he’s touched me, and my heart beats a vigorous tattoo.
I clear my throat and decide to address my pink elephant. “The last time we saw each other wasn’t very pleasant. Am I forgiven?”
“Are you still dating the child molester?”
He asks bitterly.
“Oh, no. Definitely not.” I hesitate. “I’m not seeing anyone actually.”
“Focusing on your studies?”
“Yeah, something like that. How about you?”
“Yep, focusing on my studies.” He gives me a slanted grin.
I giggle. That’s not the question I wanted answered, and I can’t imagine him putting school before anything else. He always hated it so much. I voice these musings.
“That’s because I was sick of other people telling me what to think and what classes to take. I take whatever classes strike me as interesting and allow myself to think whatever I want now.”
“What classes have you taken?”
“Lots, but some of my favorites have been Creative Writing, Greek Mythology, painting, World Literature, oh yeah, and Women’s Lit.”
That all sounds well and good, but how will he earn a degree taking only what he’s interested in? “What will your degree be in?”
"I’m undecided. I’m not in a real hurry to get a degree, honestly. I just want to learn. I’ve been thinking, eventually, I might go the creative writing path.”
“Oh, I could totally see you doing that.” I picture him running his hands through his hair at a mahogany desk, trying desperately to pen the perfect sonnet. Then, I picture me, his self-appointed muse, sitting in front of him on his desk to give him some inspiration. I feel myself blush and grin at my thoughts.
“You seem happy,” he interrupts.
“I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, Michael,” I admit. The look in his eyes allows me to go further. “I feel very fortunate to be enjoying your company.” I give him a look that I hope communicates all that I’m feeling, all that I want to say but can’t just yet.
He studies me for a moment. I wait patiently for him to say something. He doesn’t say a word. I begin to fidget, realizing I’ve revealed a great deal, yet somehow he’s revealed nothing. He finally grabs and holds my hand and runs the fingers of his free hand over mine, making some unknown pattern. My fingertips grasp his. This feels so right. He lifts my hand and plants a small kiss on my knuckles. Slowly, he arranges my hand back on the couch and gets up to make his way back to the platform.
I melt into the couch as I revel in what I can only deem is an encouraging first encounter. Does he fully understand why it is that I am here? And what kind of change has occurred in me? I’m far more mature than the thirteen-year-old girl he fell for all those years ago. I’m even more mature than the seventeen-year-old young woman he tried to reason with a few years back. I allow our confrontation and last conversation to run through my head and flow onto my page.