Page 15 of Rock Me

“Being a bean scooper.”

“You mean counter.”

“No, I literally I scoop beans. Well, lentils. From the bag into the pot. From the pot onto the pan. The pan into the bucket. The bucket into th-…”

“I think I get it. So, what do you wish you could have achieved at the ripe old age of two and a half decades?”

“Well, I haven’t even been to Europe. I would have loved to have been to France and Belgium in particular.”

“Why there?”

“I… love the music from there. It’s just so…”

“Musical.” I say, although it sounds ridiculous. Music being musical. But I know she knows what I mean.

“Yes!”

“I assume you don’t mean the lyrical genius of their prominent electronic music scene.”

“No, I mean, like…Edith Piaf and Jacquel Brel and Christophe. Vocals charged with emotion and heartbreak.”

I just nod. Who is this girl? What woman in their 20’s living in downtown L.A. listens to that kind of music? The kind of woman who cradles scotch like it’s her first born and feels completely comfortable forcing strange men to go fishing for her iPhone out of urinals, that’s what kind. The irresistible kind. The kind I wish I could bury myself in, in every way possible.

“I love that kind of music too.” I hum a few bars of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. The last few notes fading away.

“Wow,” she whispers. “I might not know a lot about you, but I know you are definitely …not a professional singer.”

“Hey! You don’t know that,” I shout, offended.

“Oh, I know. I know that like I know this freckle on my left hand.” She waves her hand up to show me, and I catch it, bringing it to my face, pretending to peer at it closely. I flick my finger at it and pretend to gasp.

“Oh no! I flicked your freckle off! It must mean I AM a singer after all.”

She rips her hand back and inspects it. “You did not. And even if you did, I would still be right about the singer thing. You are monumentally terrible. Like probably the worst thing I’ve ever heard ever. My poor ears.”

“You haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Surprise me,” she challenges me, one eye brow cocking. Her eyes lighting up the night. Her skin pale and translucent, like the surface of a milk bath. Smooth. Silken. Begging to be touched.

I take a breath.

Now or never.

I lean in, so close only moonlight fits through the gap between our noses.

“I want to kiss you more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time. I’ve wanted to kiss you, ever since I saw you at the bar. I bumped into you on purpose, because I wanted to touch you, be near you. You’ve entranced me from the very first second I saw you. So, please, just fucking let me kiss you.”

Her breath stops in her throat, and her pupils grow large and perfectly round. Drinking in the world around it. And me. I can see myself in them.

I feel, rather than see, her move. Closer.

She touches my chest with her hand, and her eyes start to close as she leans in.

My body grows hard in some places and soft in others in the anticipation of her lips on mine.

My cheek feels a warm breeze as she parts her lips, as our mouths almost touch.

So close…