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  • You ask me what I'm doing at home on a Saturday night.

    I love that you picture me dancing - sweaty, hips swinging, hands on some bulging Latinos' chest in a steamy discotheque somewhere in the esoteric depths of Montmartre. Yeah, baby! No, baby, you know I only dance when the music runs deep.


    I've been going through your playlist again, and now you're reminding me of mine, opening your window, holding the receiver up so I can hear the waves, and I feel the music, I feel it. Your voice and the wind and the ocean make a forceful trio. The wind draws his bow across the whitecaps, and the ocean is roaring like a double bass, and yeah, I feel it, deep C, what are you trying to do to me, you know this makes me want to sing along.

    You can always come home, you say, and there's an undercurrent just below the surface of your voice that sucks me right in, every time.


    Home. Where's that at, I seem to have misplaced myself again. I lost my sense of direction somewhere between here and where you are, but I hear your fingers, tapping on the piano keys, sliding down the metal strings, and I can taste the music, like salt on my tongue.

    Can you recall how she laughed when you said that at its best, playing music is almost like making love? She's no musician, but I, yes, I knew what you meant. And now, your voice makes me want to thrust my head back against the cushions and take it all in, the waves, the wind, the currents, the storm raging the entire distance between us, but I won't tell you that. Do you not miss me at all? you ask. No. The house misses you, do you not miss the house? No. I'll bet you miss the view of the ocean, though. Yes. Yes, I do. Listen to the wind across the waves and tell me that's not sexy, tell me you don't feel it, tell me you don't know exactly how that feels, I know you miss it, I know you do. And there's that bow again, lighter and lighter across the strings, slower and slower, and I feel it all right, and I know what your fingers can do, but I'm not your instrument, not anymore.

    I wish you could have seen me last night, in my black heels, doing pirouettes on carpet-clad steps in the dimly lit stairway in his building, heavy with desire and loss, leaning my head on his shoulder, trying not to recall how you danced me to the end of love. I want to tell you, but I'm afraid you'll withdraw your voice, and I need you to keep talking nonsense, I need the wind to keep talking me out of calling him back. Yours is a coarse lullaby but it's the only one that can soothe me and lull me to sleep.


    I like the way you play, you say, and your voice pulls me under. Remind me, which one of us decided it was time to go?
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