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“So you’re a musician …”
He shrugged, playing coy at first. Then he started chatting about his band, the Careless Ones. There
were four of them in the group; they’d all grown up together in Metarie. And though they started as a
Dixieland punk band, whatever that was, they were veering more into blues and country.
“But half of us want to go in one direction,” he continued. “The other half in the opposite. And I’m
the lead singer. Some days I feel like I’m in the middle of a custody battle for the soul of the band …”
He held his draft glass by the rim instead of its waist. His hair was damp and he smelled like
apples. And his hands. Did I mention his hands? His fingers were lean, his forearms sinewy from
holding guitars or microphones or signing autographs. Then he continued talking—about himself, his
music, his band, his dreams, his aspirations, his influences, his inspirations. And I was spellbound.
Not by his story, but by his total self-involvement. Rather than making me feel agitated, his youthful
self-obsession suddenly, completely relaxed me. Maybe he was looking for my approval, but I wasn’t
looking for his. I just wanted two things from him. His mouth on my mouth. His hands on my body. I
just wanted with him what I’d had with my fantasy men: sex, no strings attached.
Our burgers arrived and he popped a fry in his remarkable mouth. I took a bite of my burger. Then
another one. I thought the silence was a cue for him to ask about me, but he started talking again.
“I mean I didn’t, like, study music. For me it’s all about the effect on the audience. That’s the only
way you measure music, by—”
“Stop talking.”
“—the way it feels when it rushes over the—”
“Stop talking.”
“—crowd.”
This time he heard me.
It was my turn to talk.
“It’s sweet how passionate you are about music, Mark. But if you want me to come upstairs with
you, you’ve got to promise you’re going to use that beautiful mouth of yours for something other than
talking.”
I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. He dipped a fry in ketchup and took a bite. Then he
signaled for the bill.
Up I went, landing on the laminate counter between a tiny fridge and a tinier stove, his lean torso
wedged between my thighs. Off came my T-shirt. Then he grabbed my sneakers by the heels, pulling
them off too, one then the other, tossing them over his shoulders. My jeans came off next, leaving me
in a black lace bra and thong. It wasn’t planned. These were lucky picks.
“Fuck you’re hot,” he whispered, liberating one of my nipples, which instantly hardened in his cool
mouth.
“I told you, no talking.” I leaned back into the metal upper cabinets. This was how I’d do it, how
I’d get over Will, how I’d shove images of him and Tracina out of my head. I’d make new memories,
with new men to think about when I needed relief or release. Starting with this one.
Over his shoulder I took in the dim, masculine room, a British flag for curtains, a small fat-backed
TV perched on a hope chest across from a high double bed with drawers beneath. It was tidy, but it
had a second-hand, temporary feel. No one would be here long, least of all a girl.
While he took my other nipple in his mouth, going slowly back and forth, slicking it down, I
worked my fingers through his hair, and gathered up his T-shirt in my fists. Off it came, his smooth