“So you know that I always obsessively check my website?” Pause. “Yes, I know it’s bad for me but that’s not why I’m calling.”
Pause and I can hear some yapping on the other side.
“Listen, the website has crashed or something. I can’t find it anymore.” Pause. “Why is this happening now...no, I swear I didn’t touch anything. Aha, all gone.”
“My roommate?”
I freeze.
“Why would he have anything to do with it?” She sighs. “Come on G, why do you always think the worst of people?”
I did it to help her. Shelter her.
“No, he’s great actually. He’s really...”
Her voice fills up with emotion and I stop breathing, waiting for her response.
“Nice.”
Nice? That’s it. Nice?
“He’s so gentle. Caring. No it’s not a bad thing, I like that about him but there’s just something about him. Almost like he’s holding back a part of himself, some...secret he wants to tell me but can`t....I know I sound crazy now, let’s just hang up and forget I said anything.”
“Kissed? No we haven’t kissed,” she almost squeals. “And I’m hanging up now. Make sure to get the website fixed. Bye G. Love you.”
Cut. A trace of jealousy spikes in me.
Sighing, she mutters something to herself about the website then crosses the floor over to her bed. My eyes squeeze when she sinks down on the mattress, letting out a comfortable moan that shoots straight through my brain.
I feel her moving around on top of me, bury herself in between her frilly covers and cushions and I press down on my shaft with the heel of my palm, gritting my teeth. I listen to her inhales and exhales, counting her breaths.
They’re deep. Relaxed. Good, I don’t want her to have any fears. Or nightmares.
And she won’t, now that she has a guardian monster under her bed.
5
Amber
When Stan came home from work today, the first thing he did was to check in on me. I was busy procrastinating, trying to teach myself to knit and the reprimanding look on his face was so funny that I nearly burst out into laughter.
Shaking his head, he walked over to me, still wearing his cognac colored leather jacket and grey hoodie underneath. He smelled amazing of aftershave, physical labor and hot afternoon sun.
“You know what you should be doing,” he rasped, his eyes attentive as always, “and this is not it.” Then he scooped me up, making me squeal, put me down on a chair and handed me my cello and stroke.
Taking my wrists he placed my hands on the instrument, his touch so overwhelming that I felt it in my whole body. Bending his face down, I could barely breathe as he stood behind me, his cheek brushing against my temple.
“Play,” he said, sounding like he wanted no protests. Like he knows what’s best for me. And judging by how well I played afterwards, maybe he’s right.
Sometimes it feels like he knows everything. Like he knows my dreams and little secrets that not even I am aware of. Sometimes it feels like he’s going to pull them out of me.
And I know that they’d be safe in his hands.
Putting my cello aside, I rise, stretching my neck and my arms. I could use a break. I’ve been going at it for hours now and weirdly I feel somewhat okay about the concert tomorrow. Maybe because Stan is here, my security blanket.
My unexpected hero.
He’s down in the basement, taking a nap because he was exhausted when he came home from work. And after looking out for me, he went to bed. I don’t want to disturb so I don’t tell him that I’m heading out for a run in the woods.