Flash writing (20 minutes without a pause):
The winds were howling through the canyon as we drove back to your house. It would be the first time I’d walked through the door, well, it would be the first time for a lot of things, for me, for us. You rolled the windows down and turned up the music. You said you wanted to feel everything. Wild Horses blew over us as the wind rushed through the downed glass.
I think I loved you already, right then, right there.
We raced up the steps, laughing, breath knocking out of us, my heart beating like an eighties drumbeat. I was too swept up to feel the jangling nerves, but they were there, rattling along, flapping their spreading wings.
You grabbed hold of my hand, pulled me close, saying nothing much of anything, but saying everything all the same. I breathed you in, breathed the front room in. You smelled of soap and citrus and cigarettes and a hint of peppermint. The room like wood, like old books, like the music room in school, and again, like citrus. A line of guitars smiled up at us and I made a silly remark about never going home with musicians.
You kissed me then.
And everything around us lit up.
I pulled back then. Overwhelmed, shaking, realizing that yes, I was falling, hard and fast.
In the middle of that kiss the choir of self-doubt and baggaged fears had started to sing. Their voices high-pitched, almost screaming, making my ears ring and my heart sink.
For a moment I thought I’d run.
Maybe you could see it in my eyes. Maybe you felt it when I pulled away.
You grabbed my other hand, softly, and said “it’s okay.”
I wanted to ask “what is?”
But then I turned back, looked into your dark eyes, soft, warm, quietly pleading, and I believed you.
You asked me to put music on, while you went to grab us a bottle of wine.
It was like you asked me to conjure up magic because that’s what music is to me.
Like that kiss.
Like that room with all the guitars, and all the lined up record albums.
Like the soft tone in your voice making promises of okay, promises that no one can really keep.
Not without magic.
You had my favorite Roxy Music album. One I’d had on cassette.
I played it in my first car, obsessively, until the tape wore our, and tore.
You told me your favorite song was “Dance Away”.
And then we danced. Tripping a bit over each other as we tried to navigate our newly met bodies.
Your dog howled in the background.
Like a back-up singer. Like an audience-of-one cheering us on.
I could still hear the wind outside. Heavy sounds, full of action and movement. Emotion and change.
Like us that night.
Dance Away :: Roxy Music