Or the face she made when the take-out Szechuan shrimp was too spicy, or the Riesling too sweet.
I could describe the sight of Sara wet from the shower, beads of water clinging to her body, as she stood brushing her blonde hair, which darkened to luminous gold when wet.
I could describe how, when she made love, she became deadly serious and she gritted her teeth and locked her eyes on yours. Or the downy hairs on her smooth face that could only be seen from inches away under a pink late-afternoon light.
I could describe the sound coming from deep in her throat, the low moan that she herself had failed to present on the page in all its textured sensuality.
These things I could describe easily.
Romantic drivel? Maybe. So sue this second-rate sound engineer.
I could describe how Sara took your hand before falling asleep and kissed it lightly, or how in the morning she’d lie in bed only so long before becoming impatient and poking your ribs until you awoke.
I could describe the abrupt sound, almost like a delighted laugh, when she came, and the sound of her catching her breath as you caught yours, and then how, just when you thought it was over, she’d snuggle close, bite your shoulder, and whisper: Do it again.
Had I known how often I’d find myself carrying my drums in and out of the trunks of cars, up and down staircases, down city streets, on and off stages, into and out of basements and attics, across restaurants and bars, through doorways and around drunken dancing revelers … had I known all of this when I was twelve years old and choosing an instrument, I might have chosen something smaller. Anything, really. Sometimes I’d even say it to myself—The harmonica, Will. A nice, little stick-it-in-your-pocket instrument—hauling gear to my car after a show when everybody else had already packed up and gone home.
One Wednesday afternoon in the April of my senior year of college, I was carrying my drums from my dormitory room, down a flight of stairs, and into my car. Ordinarily this took me five trips. I had just finished the third trip when I saw Sara coming back to the dormitory. Last week had been cold, but today was warm and breezy, and Sara was a snapshot of spring: short-sleeved pink shirt and blue jeans, hair blowing behind her as she walked along the flagstone path, knapsack slung over one shoulder.
When she got close, I noticed that she’d been crying. I’d seen Jeffrey cry twice before, the first time after accidentally driving over a cat, and recently—though he denied it afterward—during the closing minutes of the film Sleepless in Seattle. But never Sara.
“Do you need any help with that?” she asked.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
For a moment she looked surprised, as if unaware that her puffy red eyes had given her away. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She looked away. “How much do you have left?”
“I think we can get the rest in one trip.” I wasn’t going to pass up an offer that came along so rarely.
My gig that evening was in New York. All year I’d been going there fairly often to see bands and meet musicians. Back in the fall, I’d seen Fred McPhee play a couple of times and introduced myself after a show. When I ran into him again more recently, he’d told me that he needed a drummer to substitute with his band, High Noon, over the summer. Their regular drummer had accepted a two-month engagement to tour with another band.
So tonight’s gig was really an audition. They played every Wednesday night at Donny’s Den, in the West Village. If I did well, the summer gigs were mine. I could imagine no better way to transition from college student to New York musician than having a summer’s worth of performances lined up.
Sara and I went up to my room and came downstairs again with the last of my equipment.
“So tonight’s the big night,” she said.
“Yep.” I shoved the last of my gear into the backseat and shut the door. “But seriously, what’s wrong?”
I wondered if she’d had an argument with Jeffrey before he left for the airport. He’d been on edge all week. The other morning, when I went by his room for some book I’d lent him, he opened the door in his interview suit. He was trying it on, making sure it fit. He handed me my book and said, “I guess I won’t be needing these any longer. You know—books?”
“This is only a temporary job,” I reminded him. “One year—that’s all it is.”
“Assuming I’m lucky enough to get it.”
He made several sad attempts to put on the tie. Too long, too short, too long again. He muttered profanities each time. Finally, he crumpled up the tie, threw it in a corner of the room, and asked if I’d join him for a tequila shot or three.