Second Chance Romance. Jill Weatherholt
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surprise me all over again. “Never occurred to me.”
“I think everything’s different in the presence of stars. Food tastes different—”
“Different, how?”
“Saltier, I guess. And sweeter. Music’s different, too—more dreamy, and lonelier. More—” he pauses, and I can see his silhouette clearly now; his face is tilted upward “—more longing in it. And everything takes on this particular scent. You smell it, don’t you?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, thinking he’d make a damn fine Romeo if he were ten years younger—he’s got that dreamy-melancholy thing going.
“Wait a second,” he says, and sprints back the way we came. In a minute I hear music floating on the warm September air: acoustic guitar and a melody I’ve never heard, but it’s like I already know it and love it. Some things are like that; sushi tasted totally familiar the first time I put it in my mouth. My parents were choking on the wasabi and I just went on chewing with the gentle smile of someone coming home.
The man singing has one of those resonant, ragged, sexy voices that comes from someplace deep and cavernous in his smoke-filled lungs.
With your measured abandon and your farmer’s walk, with your “let’s go” smile and your bawdy talk.
Clay returns, and he stands so close to me that our arms touch.
“You see? Sounds different under the stars, right?” he asks.
“I haven’t heard it any other way,” I say. “How can I be sure?”
“You’re not a Greg Brown fan?”
With your mother’s burden and your father’s stare, with your pretty dresses and your ragged underwear…
“I could be converted,” I say, smiling. “I’ve just never heard him before.”
“Never heard of—my God. Talk about deprived.”
The skin of his arm feels very warm against mine. Hot, in fact. I lean slightly toward him so that more of my skin touches more of his.
“It’s good you’re not set in your ways,” he says. “If there’s one thing I’m evangelical about, it’s music.” It’s a good thing I refuse to analyze this; if I did, I’d hear the whispered implication that he plans to evangelize me.
“This song’s been haunting me all day,” he says. “I think it might be about you. Tell me the truth, Greg Brown’s in love with you, right?”
“Can’t get anything past you,” I say, but now I want to shut up so I can hear the song and find out what Clay thinks of me. I can only catch certain lines now and then, though, between the crickets and the breeze playfully tousling the pines.
With your pledge of allegiance and your ringless hand, with your young woman’s terror and your old woman’s plans…
“Uh-oh. I just realized,” Clay says. “I’m doing it again.”
“Hmm?” I’m still straining to hear the song. Will your children look at you and wonder, about this woman made of lightning bugs and thunder…take in what you can’t help but show with your name that is half yes, half no.
“I’m being a DJ.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I do this when I’m nervous—try to talk through music. Not even my music. Pathetic.”
“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” I say. “I think it’s sweet.”
He turns slightly, and so do I, and our arm contact becomes my breasts fitting warmly against his chest, and now the sound of his breathing is so close it blends with everything else: the shimmery pine needles and the cricket-frog chorus and the lyrics I can’t quite follow anymore.
He bends down slightly, the shadow of his face moving toward mine, but instead of the expected searching lips, I feel his teeth biting down gently on my lower lip. I suck in my breath.
“I wanted to do that for hours,” he says, his voice thick in his throat.
“Bite me?”
“Mmm. Taste you.”
This guy’s not normal, I think, and a montage of our day unfurls inside my brain with the frenetic pace of time-lapse photography: the bus exploding into ribbons of orange and yellow, the kaleidoscope of the pool balls at the Owl Club, Nick and his jelly-smudged Ramones shirt, Clay feeding me calamari with his fingers. His mouth closes on mine now, and I can taste the day there, the effervescent weirdness of it, the unshakable sensation that I’m being marked by every minute.
You won’t remember the half-open door, or the train that won’t even stop there anymore, for you.
CHAPTER 7
Dawn. Sky is a crazy electric blue. Slivers of it appear when the grass-scented breeze lifts the airy curtains and reveals the morning in triangular slices. I flip over and notice for the first time the circular skylight. Human beings are made for yurts, I think. “Stars make things taste saltier and sweeter.” You won’t remember the half-open door. Clay is positioned in a slightly diagonal tilt; one leg is draped over mine, lips slightly parted as he snores a soft, wheezing prayer to the sleep gods. Medea’s here, curled up close to my head on the foreign pillow, and Dog—what’s her name? Cindy? no, Sandy—is curled up at our feet. Medea opens one eye, checks out proximity of Dog, goes back to sleep. I should be shocked at abruptly finding myself in this tranquil, domestic tableau.
Nothing has ever seemed more natural.
I follow Medea’s lead and collapse back into dreams.
Knock knock knock. Knock knock knock.
Who’s drumming? Jesus, California hippies for you. Always beating their bongos…
Knock knock knock. Knock knock.
“Clay? You awake?” A woman’s voice. Edgy. Irritated.
My eyes pop open. Friend? Has Friend come to visit?
“Clay? Come on, you there? I need your help.” Softer now, asking, “Can I come in?”
I look over at Clay, who is still in the position I saw him in last: stretched corner to corner across the bed, mouth open, snoring. I poke his arm urgently. No response.
“Listen, I know you must be in there, hon.”
Hon?
“I know I said I’d respect your privacy, but the car won’t start and I have a dentist appointment.” Pause. I can hear her swearing softly. “Clay.” Another pause, and then a decision: the doorknob turns. “I’m coming in, okay?”
Oh, God. Paralyzed, clutching sheets to my naked chest. I want to shake snoring Clay awake but I can’t move as the door swings open, followed by a door-frame-shaped blast of sunlight and Woman.
We’re both perfectly still as we stare at each other. She’s so backlit, I can barely make out her features. I can tell only that she’s petite, dark-haired, tightly wound, the type I’d cast as Hedda Gabler: intense, compact, ready for a fight. This is all the data I’m able to gather, blinking into the sunlight, before a whispered “shit” escapes her lips and she backs out the door, slamming it behind her. I hear her footsteps rapidly retreating.
Wanton Tart and Cat Shot by Furious Gabler. Man Says Both Just Friends.
I fall back against my pillow (not my pillow—my pillow is cremated) and close my eyes for a couple of seconds, willing the previous scene to rewind and erase. No use. Instead the scene is in a perpetual loop, playing over and over across my closed lids.
“Clay?”
More snores.
“Hey. Clay?” I’m getting louder, now, shaking him gently