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| Lagerfeld...yeah! |
She paced the room,
waiting. The industrial clock above the door swept the minutes at a painfully
slow pace. She was dressed simple and clean, ready. He showed up at the door
with two bottles of Heineken. One in each hand, outstretched, he knew she liked
them. The light in the hallway cast an eerie florescent glow. The lamps made an
audible buzz. She quickly shut the door, latched the bolt tightly. Beers were
opened. He was wearing a leather jacket and the familiar scent of Lagerfeld.
His thin hair was perfectly parted and his shirt just slightly taunt. She could
play him like a guitar and tonight he was all…hers. He was ready to be
unwrapped. Tonight would be an extraordinary evening of practice. In her head,
she had been reviewing the music all week, rehearsing the notes, perfecting the
score. They positioned themselves on the dormitory mattress. He mounted the
bunk with athletic prowess. Both bodies descended into worn out sheets stinking
of sleep. Wrinkled posters surrounded them, a calendar, a clock radio,
used books on the counter. Clothes were tossed without rhythm into the center
of the room. She insisted that his watch, yes, even his watch, had to go. In
order to proceed, he must be naked, loss of inhibition and loss of decision.
She attacked and dominated her guitar, made it squeal. Starting with a simple
waltz, she added sonatas, arpeggios, Beethoven! The clock above the door
started to spin. She knelt in response to the swell of the song. Gazing across
him, she caught her breath through her teeth and noticed the slickness of
her own flesh through the large window facing the walls of buildings. He was
matted with climax, instrument down, breathing quietly. The conductor caressed
her subject, touched him, matching his moistness. At once warm, and at once
cold, she pulled the laced sheet across her. Footsteps scuffled through the
hallway a few doors down, giggles from weekend revelers. Earlier she had said
she loved him, that was wrong, to say, she knew it, noted the grist of the
words the moment she uttered them. It was the wrong step, only righted by play,
only righted by practice, practice makes perfect. Play to learn, learn to play.
She could make every muscle respond, she had studied… him. She engaged in
private lessons, he, a very submissive student. Brawny strong, and across
campus, his smell different, easily swapped, more music to learn, but so easy
to perform. An elementary composition! A wrong note, that love thing, a hole in
the orchestration, a novice effort produced. Her thoughts made her cringe. She
stuck her nose in his hair and decided to let it be, enjoy the comfort of her
tools, the smell of spit. Hands became limp. Sweat turned into sleep. That love
thing, a hollow pall.
Later that morning,
they both enjoyed a good laugh because after they got dressed, they mutually
discovered that they had mistakenly put on each other's pants.
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