One Shots

Ave Maria

This was a request from a dear friend.

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I stir when I hear the bathroom faucet turn on. The bed beside me is empty. My eyes open slowly, quickly blinking shut again when I'm blinded by the sliver of light coming from the near-closed door. I sit up, slipping back into the darkness, and stretch my tired limbs. I can't help but grumble at being awoken, but I don't think I fell asleep that long ago.

When I open my eyes again, I take a look around the room. It's empty, like it was before I fell asleep, but now the French doors to the balcony are shut so the curtains remain still. Glancing at the floor, I notice how the clothes that once lay crumpled around the bed are missing. Searching in the dark, I wait for my eyes to fully adjust. As they do, I start to make out the chair near the closet, and once my pupils are fully dilated, I can vaguely tell the clothes have been laid nicely over the back of it.

The faucet turns off. I glance at the door, expecting to see her slip out, but am disappointed. She must be washing up, since she didn't get the chance earlier.

As I turn my head straight I yawn into my chest, thinking of how our clothes ended up discarded on the floor. Images filter through my brain: how Maria's skin was as smooth as the satin that covered it, the zipper that glided so smoothly down her back, her hungry gaze. Remembering the way she'd looked beneath me, flushed and desperate but so assured, makes my skin heat up. Even after her big night, after being celebrated by her peers and fans, she held me close and kissed me like I was the only man in the world. I can't help the smile that falls across my lips.

She'd been so anxious for tonight. She'd been rehearsing for weeks, spending long nights in the theater, even after everyone had gone, to practice. She'd practiced so often she sometimes swore at me in Italian if I interrupted her. When tonight finally arrived, she'd been a bundle of nerves as she sat beside me and watched the other performers. And finally, when she'd performed, she fucking killed it. She sang Desdemona's "The Willow Song" and "Ave Maria" (songs that had proper Italian names, she'd shortened them for me so I could say them) from Verdi's "Otello". Her voice was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. There's always something to say about practice makes perfect, but even I wasn't prepared for her performance.

Maria was powerful. She holds such dominion of her voice, something I deeply admire as much as I selfishly envy, and it was proven as she sang. I couldn't understand a word, truthfully, as pretty much every opera ever written is in another language, and her piece was no different. Even still, I'd sat at the edge of my seat as I watched her. She so easily met every desolate note, her voice able to crescendo and decrescendo as effortlessly as it would to simply speak. I couldn't speak to how well her Italian was, but every syllable to pass her full lips was clear and well-enunciated. Her voice was haunting, echoing in the theater and chilling the viewers in their seats. A guy two spots down from me shivered at one of her peaks. I could tell she was pushing herself harder than she ever had, and it paid off. Every audience member was on their feet by her final note, and they stayed standing for a few minutes.

After her performance, I didn't get to see her until the end of the show. Once she and the rest of her cast mates took their bows, she appeared from a door that lead backstage and grabbed me. I don't think anything I said came out eloquently. I know I said "wow" about six hundred times. Every time I did she smiled and kissed me again, thanking me for three letters. By the time I could tell her how proud I was, we were celebrating with her cast in the wings of the stage.

Laying back after another moment, I sigh because she hasn't returned to me. The sliver of light from the door shines on where our heads lay on the pillow, so I groan as I turn away and shut my eyes.