In his room, we sit on the edge of his futon sofa as the scent of vanilla fills the air and my lungs with a sweetness that both calms and relaxes me. The scented candle continues to flicker on top of his dresser and the light of a dim red bulb illuminates the room creating a warm, soothing atmosphere.

He begins to play a beautiful melody on my acoustic guitar.

In that moment I ask myself, “How would I describe this scene? This moment I’m experiencing?”

My soul tells me, “Draw it with your imagination! Paint it with your dreams! Write it with your words!”

“But what perspective shall I write it from?” I ask myself, “The statistical, factual girl who views everything objectively or the sentimental, emotional girl who romanticizes everything?”

“Don’t think! Just feel!”

He interrupts my thoughts by singing and playing an India Arie song I recognize called I am ready for love and asks me if I know this song. The sentimental part of me wants to believe that he is somehow telling me, in this encoded way, that he’s open and ready to fall in love again but the statistical, factual part of me wants evidence – for him to express the words in a direct, honest way – his words – not those of someone else.

He doesn’t play the whole song and swiftly begins playing a series of beautiful chords – chords that resonate with my thoughts and feelings. I feel inspired and instantly believe we’d make an incredible collaborative team of creativity. My thoughts and feelings expressed lyrically to his music in perfect harmony.

I wish to remember this moment – the thoughts and feelings I’m experiencing and have a sudden urge to write things down but it feels like my thoughts are fluttering away from me like butterflies escaping the cage of my mind.

I imagine myself as a frantic woman writing each thought as it comes to mind on a single sheet of paper and tossing it away to write the next thought immediately down on a fresh new sheet of paper so I don’t forget it – a huge pile of papers on a desk just waiting for my thoughts to be written on. I envision papers of my thoughts floating around me with the speed in which I’m writing and tossing papers away from me.

I tell him I have this sudden urge to write and it feels like an eternity before he finds me an empty black book along with a pen and hands them to me.

I hear my thoughts replaying in my head – getting edited. I’m frozen with fear by the intimidating blank pages – the fear of what I believe will be bad writing. My thoughts are safe in my mind where no one can else sees them, no one else can judge them, where I can take my time to refine them and write them in a coherent, beautiful way.

The perfectionist in me doesn’t want to make mistakes, wants things to flow out seamlessly. I tell myself to stop letting fear control me and I write – page after page of my thoughts – every new thought requiring a new page or a new section of a page written in different angles, in different sizes, in cursive or in printing.

I write – whatever I remember, until I’m satisfied I have all my ideas down – a rough draft.

I smile to myself, thinking he’ll know he will be the inspiration to the things I write about.

I close my little black book, satisfied I have everything I want written down then he passes me the guitar.

He watches me as I play a simple guitar picking melody I learned on my own. I play it slowly and meticulously with such focus that I forget he’s even there.

He makes me aware of his presence by lifting my chin up and looking deep into my eyes. His big blue eyes reveal that he can’t contain his arousal. Without a word, without asking for permission, he takes the guitar away from me and puts it gently down on the floor beside his dresser.

I protest, before he delves in for a kiss, reminding him that I made plans to meet with a friend shortly.

He whispers in my ear that it won’t take long, that my friend will wait and it instantly sends shivers down my spine.

I feel his lips press up against mine and taste the tobacco on his tantalizing tongue.

I can’t resist his deep, passionate kiss and my body prepares for what is to be the most symphonic love making session thus far.

As I anxiously prepare to leave, knowing that I was running late to meet my friend, he tells me, “Your friend will be there and I know you’ll come back to me.”

I’m left speechless by his arrogance. But he was right.


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