Oh sweet thing, sweet thing oh, my, my, my, my, sweet thing
I felt the climbing, pulsing ache. With my other hand I grabbed at my breast, clenching my nipple between my fingers. Will’s voice was peaking and falling so beautifully and I felt the intense moment between my ears and down my spine and between my legs. I arched my back and pressed deeply into myself with steady pressure. As I came, I opened my mouth wide, trying desperately to stifle the breathy “Ahh” that spilled out. I felt my body curved slightly above the water. I sank back down, opened my eyes, and glanced over to Will, who had stopped singing. He continued strumming the guitar as he gaped at me, his lips slightly parted. And then with curiosity in his eyes, his mouth curled into the most sincere, small smile. It was like his expression said I don’t judge you, I want you to feel good, and then he whispered, “Hey, beautiful.”
“Hey,” I said, voice raspy. It was a moment where I thought I should feel embarrassed, but I didn’t. What Will had witnessed should have made me feel like the going-to-school-in-your-pajamas dream does. You know, when you’re a teenager and it feels like all eyes are on you; you’re the center of the universe. Then you grow up and realize it would have been awesome to go to school in your pajamas and the only reason why you had those dreams in the first place was because you went to school with a couple of assholes who would make it their goal in life to ruin you over wearing your Hello Kitty nightgown to biology class? That is what I realized in that moment. I wasn’t embarrassed that Will had witnessed such a private moment, because he didn’t make me feel embarrassed about it. Will was secure enough with himself to respect a moment that was so raw and personal.
Anyway, maybe I wanted Will to see, or maybe the wine and Vicodin wasn’t such a good idea.
“Are you ready to get out?”
“Yes.” When he walked toward me, I reached my hand out and let him pull me to my feet. He only let me stand there exposed for a second before wrapping a towel around me. After he lifted me out, I hopped on my good foot to lean against the counter.
“Do you want me to grab you some clothes?”
I looked around and spotted one of Will’s white V-neck T-shirts lying over the towel rack. “Can you hand me that shirt?”
He looked back, confused, but he grabbed it anyway and smelled it. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Smells fine, I guess.” I pulled the T-shirt over my head and then shimmied the towel out from underneath. The shirt fit like a dress and smelled like Will. I inhaled deeply.
“Ready?” he said. I nodded. He grabbed me around the waist and hitched me up a little on my good side to help me hop to my bedroom.
It was a warm evening; the windows in the apartment were open, letting in a light breeze. The warmth and the street noise reminded me of the summers with my father. I lay back on my bed, propping my head and foot up on pillows while Will perused a stack of CDs sitting on my dresser. He held up the self-titled CD from the band Shine, a post-progressive rock group from Detroit. My friend who worked in a music store in Ann Arbor had recommended the CD years ago. It had become one of those albums that I kept close by. I would forget about it for months and then pick it up and fall in love all over again.
“I worked on this,” he said.
I stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“I used to know these guys. Years ago, they asked me to sing on two songs for this album. It’s just the obscure backup vocal on…” He looked at the back of the CD. “…track three, ‘Lie, Paula,’ and track five, ‘Mission.’”
I couldn’t speak. “Lie, Paula” and “Mission” were my two favorite songs on the album simply because I loved the ethereal backup vocals. I spent many nights daydreaming to those two songs, wondering what kind of angelic being could produce that sound. I was gawking and completely bewildered.
He smiled. “Mia, you’re high as kite, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I didn’t explain why I was so shocked. For all Will knew, I was looped from the pain pills.
He put the CD in the player and lay back next to me, stretching his legs out and propping his hands behind his head. And then out of nowhere he said, “Did you name Jackson after Jackson Pollock?”
“No. It’s a long story.”