Page 7
Story: Obsessed-
It’s such a simple answer. Honest somehow and I can’t help but to smile at him.And he gets that expression on his face again. All mine.
It makes me squirm. Makes me feel warm all over and I smooth my hair with my hand. “Do you mind if I sit down and join you?”
He puts his arm over the couch’s back, making space for me and giving me his answer. I curl up next to him, fully aware of that I’m skimpily clad in satin pajama shorts and a short sleeved night shirt. But he’s not wearing much either, a slight sheen covering his skin and he’s got a fine smattering of golden hair on his chest.
His chest looks comforting and safe, making me want to rub my face against it just to see if he’s bristly or soft. And if his chest looks safe, then his arms look like two weapons with well-defined muscles and they move under his skin every time he shifts his position.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asks, his eyes going to my mouth because they tend to do that a lot. And my throat. He looks at my throat a lot too.
I shake my head. “Nervous.”
It makes him tense a little, the veins on his arm popping. “About what? About me?”
He sounds so worried that I let out a little laugh. “You? No. Why would I be worried about you when you make me feel so...” I search for the right word, “secure.”“Is that what you need from me?” A determined streak flares in his eyes. “Protection?”
Our knees brush together. Barely but that small touch, makes my body fiercely reactive.
My mouth drops and I grow flustered. “I...d...don’t know what I need,” I stutter, my eyes darting and they go to one of thephotos. It was taken a couple of years ago in my garden and I’m squinting at the sun.
The expression on my face is confident. Probably different than it is now. Can Stan tell? Can he tell how doubtful I am these days? Does he even care?
I glance at him and he looks like he cares. He looks like he cares more than anybody else ever has.
“Then will you do something for me that I need?” he asks and my eyes flare in surprise but I nod. He jerks his head at my cello in the corner. “Will you play something for me? I haven’t heard you play ever since I came here.”
Fidgeting, I’m tempted to sneak away with my tail between my legs. “That’s because I don’t like an audience. Not anymore at least.”
“Why not?”“Because I...suck,” I breathe and he looks like he’s about to let out a curse but then he doesn’t. He seems to be treading carefully, suddenly treating me with velvet gloves.
“How about you play and I won’t even look at you and you can pretend I’m not even here.”
“Easier said than done,” I reply but I don’t want to say no to him and I get up, hoping he doesn’t notice my legs shaking and then I take my cello and sit down on a chair. With the instrument in a firm grip, I throw him a glance and he looks away, keeping his promise.
Taking a deep breath I start playing, tensing when I mess up on the first note and I expect at least a chuckle from Stan but hestays silent. Reverent. It spices me up with some courage and I start playing, classical tones filling my small living room.
I feel his energy coming at me again, surrounding me, enveloping me in a cocoon and it fills me with a courage I’ve never felt before. Not even pep talks from Gina or any of my siblings, whom I respect more than anything, fill me with this kind of audacity.
It’s strange and I’m not sure what to do with it, my knees trembling as I play. How can he have this effect on me? I don’t know and maybe I don’t need to know but I can feel it pull us closer, creating an invisible string between us.
Or maybe it’s a chain. Something indestructible.
Throwing him a quick glance, I gasp at the look in his eyes. Absorbing. Intense. Devilish.
He averts his glare, remembering his promise but I almost panic. I want those eyes back on me again. I need them! Suddenly I don’t know how I could ever play without them.
Licking my lips, I whisper, “Please...I want you to l...look at me.”
Stan doesn’t say anything, but his eyes move as quickly as a whiplash back on mine again. It relieves me, grounds me and our gazes lock as I play. I stare at him in fascination. The lights in the living room seem to have dimmed or maybe that’s just my imagination, but I know I’m not imagining that his eyes are changing.
They’re going from that crystal blue, to a darker brown and then black. They stay on the black, holding me in his grip,haunting me. He looks...
Infatuated. Smitten. Obsessed.
When I stop playing, his eyes and the lights in the room return to normal and I put the cello away.“You’re a good audience, Stan,“ I whisper, my voice breaking a little from emotion. “If everyone were like you...” I search for the right words, “then I’d probably never doubt myself ever again.”
“You won’t,” he says with a lot of certainty and I look at him in surprise. “I’m here now.”
He is. And it seems like he’s a blessing in disguise.
It makes me squirm. Makes me feel warm all over and I smooth my hair with my hand. “Do you mind if I sit down and join you?”
He puts his arm over the couch’s back, making space for me and giving me his answer. I curl up next to him, fully aware of that I’m skimpily clad in satin pajama shorts and a short sleeved night shirt. But he’s not wearing much either, a slight sheen covering his skin and he’s got a fine smattering of golden hair on his chest.
His chest looks comforting and safe, making me want to rub my face against it just to see if he’s bristly or soft. And if his chest looks safe, then his arms look like two weapons with well-defined muscles and they move under his skin every time he shifts his position.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asks, his eyes going to my mouth because they tend to do that a lot. And my throat. He looks at my throat a lot too.
I shake my head. “Nervous.”
It makes him tense a little, the veins on his arm popping. “About what? About me?”
He sounds so worried that I let out a little laugh. “You? No. Why would I be worried about you when you make me feel so...” I search for the right word, “secure.”“Is that what you need from me?” A determined streak flares in his eyes. “Protection?”
Our knees brush together. Barely but that small touch, makes my body fiercely reactive.
My mouth drops and I grow flustered. “I...d...don’t know what I need,” I stutter, my eyes darting and they go to one of thephotos. It was taken a couple of years ago in my garden and I’m squinting at the sun.
The expression on my face is confident. Probably different than it is now. Can Stan tell? Can he tell how doubtful I am these days? Does he even care?
I glance at him and he looks like he cares. He looks like he cares more than anybody else ever has.
“Then will you do something for me that I need?” he asks and my eyes flare in surprise but I nod. He jerks his head at my cello in the corner. “Will you play something for me? I haven’t heard you play ever since I came here.”
Fidgeting, I’m tempted to sneak away with my tail between my legs. “That’s because I don’t like an audience. Not anymore at least.”
“Why not?”“Because I...suck,” I breathe and he looks like he’s about to let out a curse but then he doesn’t. He seems to be treading carefully, suddenly treating me with velvet gloves.
“How about you play and I won’t even look at you and you can pretend I’m not even here.”
“Easier said than done,” I reply but I don’t want to say no to him and I get up, hoping he doesn’t notice my legs shaking and then I take my cello and sit down on a chair. With the instrument in a firm grip, I throw him a glance and he looks away, keeping his promise.
Taking a deep breath I start playing, tensing when I mess up on the first note and I expect at least a chuckle from Stan but hestays silent. Reverent. It spices me up with some courage and I start playing, classical tones filling my small living room.
I feel his energy coming at me again, surrounding me, enveloping me in a cocoon and it fills me with a courage I’ve never felt before. Not even pep talks from Gina or any of my siblings, whom I respect more than anything, fill me with this kind of audacity.
It’s strange and I’m not sure what to do with it, my knees trembling as I play. How can he have this effect on me? I don’t know and maybe I don’t need to know but I can feel it pull us closer, creating an invisible string between us.
Or maybe it’s a chain. Something indestructible.
Throwing him a quick glance, I gasp at the look in his eyes. Absorbing. Intense. Devilish.
He averts his glare, remembering his promise but I almost panic. I want those eyes back on me again. I need them! Suddenly I don’t know how I could ever play without them.
Licking my lips, I whisper, “Please...I want you to l...look at me.”
Stan doesn’t say anything, but his eyes move as quickly as a whiplash back on mine again. It relieves me, grounds me and our gazes lock as I play. I stare at him in fascination. The lights in the living room seem to have dimmed or maybe that’s just my imagination, but I know I’m not imagining that his eyes are changing.
They’re going from that crystal blue, to a darker brown and then black. They stay on the black, holding me in his grip,haunting me. He looks...
Infatuated. Smitten. Obsessed.
When I stop playing, his eyes and the lights in the room return to normal and I put the cello away.“You’re a good audience, Stan,“ I whisper, my voice breaking a little from emotion. “If everyone were like you...” I search for the right words, “then I’d probably never doubt myself ever again.”
“You won’t,” he says with a lot of certainty and I look at him in surprise. “I’m here now.”
He is. And it seems like he’s a blessing in disguise.