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"my heart feels a thrill beyond compare"
we sit on the floor in your mother's parlor, our backs propped by the coffee table that holds books about gardening and wales. billy fury plays low on the turntable. we lick fruity preserves, seedy and sticky, from our fingers.
"they were good," i say, just to hear your response.
"she'd make them for me when i came home from school."
jam sandwiches with no crusts. your mother offered them to us as soon as we came through the door: soft, spongy bread and the tangy, homemade filling.
you yawn and stretch out beside me with bare feet and a shirt that's ridden up to expose your stomach. "i'll tell her you said you like them." you cross your arms over yourself and your eyelids fall.
tomorrow, you're leaving for denmark with the band, jimmy and john and john paul. i've known bonzo nearly as long as you've known him, but you tell me the other two are from the city.
i reach out and stroke the sliver of bare skin above your waistband. you shiver and laugh. your dimples deepen. i smile with you.
i pull at the fabric of your shirt. "i'm proud of you."
you turn to face me. your eyes are a thick blue in the light arcing through the window. something suffers between your knitted brows.
"for what?"
"for sticking it out. for making it. i think this is good for you."
"the new yardbirds?" you ask me, laughing at the name. you bring your hand to mine and play with my fingers.
i roll my eyes and fall against you. "yes, the new yardbirds. . . "
my hand reaches for your face, where light stubble covers your jaw, and i hold you, staring at you. the cleft in your chin makes you look a little older. but your eyes, bright, big, and gazing back at me, remind just how young you are. how young we are.
"what is it?" you whisper.
i rub my thumb across your cheek. "i've always really liked you, robert. and i'll keep on liking you."
you grunt and bring me close to you. our legs tangle.
"even when this band fails and i'll have to go back to running the circuit?"
i shake my head. you always smell slightly of your parents' house, like the cinnamon sticks she keeps on the kitchen counter or the homemade raspberry thumbprint cookies. as if each time we visit you steal something and stuff it in your pocket.
"that's not going to happen. i'd fight your manager before it'd happen."
you cringe. "you wouldn't wanna do that, he's huge."
"then i'll get bonzo to fight him for me. speaking of him . . . phone him up. we should go driving round town one more time before you leave."
you chuckle and rise from me to the telephone that sits near the sofa. i watch from under the table as you pace the couch, laughing when john answers, mentioning my name as you propose one last havoc tonight.
and as you talk, asking him about his son, your voice soothes me — heals that aching spot at the center of my chest. i taste the sweetness of jelly under my tongue.
