Hobi's Demands • JHS

Thirty Two

You couldn't sleep, even after a warm shower and a soothing cup of tea. You lay on your bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if Hobi had drifted peacefully into sleep.

Of course he had, sexually satiated men were notoriously sleepy and rarely wanted to discuss a play by play of their performance. Would this all feel easier for you if he was terrible in bed? Had it ever been a serious possibility that a man who danced like that could even be bad in bed?

You were still wearing his clothes having pulled them back on before getting into bed. They smelled like him, the material soft and slightly shabby. These were items he wore not just pieces he stored in his vast closet. It wasn't lost on you how toxic it was to do it, you should have felt like burning them not wrapping yourself in them.

"Yah!" You shouted your frustration into the silence then winced.

You sat up, kicking the covers off and wandered into your living room after shoving your cell phone into the pocket of Hobi's sweats. You sat down at your keyboard and sighed. What were you even thinking? You traced a finger along the keys, feeling the tactile plunge as they depressed beneath a soft touch.

You didn't even remember turning it on, but suddenly you were plugging in your headset and linking it with the bluetooth the quirky connecting sound pinging. You'd just mess around with some beats, it would frustrate you and you'd be so irritated you'd have no choice but to go to bed.

E chord then D chord, the vibration perfection, the sound blaring into your ears like a familiar friend. F sharp, then all three again, you started to tug the headphones off. You held your breath, squeezed your eyes shut, imagined Channie's face when he heard your song, Hobi's face next. It was his face that made you grit your teeth.

They all thought they knew what you needed, what would make you happy. But was anyone truly happy? You didn't think so, life was happy moments, and a lot of work in between. You pounded down a G then another. You could remember your step father teaching you piano, and you knew why he did.

In his study head down over the keys you couldn't see your mother drinking herself into oblivion. If you played loud enough you didn't hear her shouting at the tv or the neighbor's cat, or slamming the fridge if she'd run out of drinks. If you played long enough you didn't have to see her pass out, retching over the toilet, or hear her promises that she wouldn't drink the next day.

'The black keys are your guideposts, see, two three two three two three, if you remember that you can find any note you want'

He'd just pretend none of that was happening, his tall warm body next to yours. His hands moving your small ones down a chord, tapping a key to correct your alignment. He'd gently nudge you when you missed a chord and draw you back to the beginning.

You played again, fingers moving through the arrangement with utter effortlessness, you could play the keyboard in your sleep, complicated collections of notes. When the piano wasn't enough he'd take you to work at JYP and let you play his keyboard. Deafening collections of sounds far beyond a piano, and you were in love.

When your mother got pregnant things had seemed hopeful, the complete surprise of it shocking. She was forty two and they'd never thought it would happen. For eight months she'd not lifted a single drop of alcohol to her lips. You'd seen her through the worst of it in the early months, not only did she have morning sickness she had alcohol withdraw.

You shifted to background beats, adjusted them, played again. You were crying, tears making it hard to see so you kept them closed. You smoothed out the sounds, added bass, took it away, replaced it with another set of sounds. You were lost to the music and your thoughts, blearily changing the tones.