Blues and Brahms

My head is so comfortable here. I shouldn’t close my eyes, but this shoulder is the best pillow I’ve found. We’re supposed to be awake. It’s jazz. I wish he had been at the orchestra concert last night. I was awake then. Too bad we’re not still curled up under the covers. It was warmer there.

He wasn’t at the orchestra concert, but the music seemed to find him. Later that night we slipped under the covers with a small prayer of thanks for our time together. I found his gaze, looking for his love and a warm kiss. I was met with a fiery passion that landed on lips, my neck, my collarbone… I was overtaken. He pressed his lips against me with all the power of a cellist’s bow. Soft, gentle, loving, but with the vibrant energy of the most resonant forte. He looked up, and as our eyes met, Brahms was there in our bed. The music joined us, and the noise and glory of the orchestra became our dance. His movements became the trumpets and trombones in octaves, fifths; I closed my eyes and let the melody show me where to go. I was a goddess in the floating melody of the solo clarinet, I was an unbridled daemon in the crescendos of the strings. In my private darkness I saw the flying gestures of the conductor enlivened by the music, the swaying hair of a first violinist pouring himself onto the page. Modulation, minor key and old lovers and fears flashed and melted away. We were creating. This was our music. Our symphony.