Thoughts and questions rumbled from one lobe of my cerebellum to the other as rapidly and erratically as King Wong's number sixteen did in my stomach. I felt defeated, weak and disappointed in myself. I felt like I gave in to the monster of lust, as though Liz won. She knew why she came over and she succeeded in her quest. Damn her!
Of course, the possibility that such carnality might take place was present from the moment the overture was made to stop by my place in the first place—hell, I wouldn't be considered a guy unless these thoughts occurred as often as they did. But the conflict lay not in the fact that all this occurred; no, the conflict lay in the fact that it felt OK. It felt comforting. Liz was actually there in a way that she'd never been there for me.
Or has she always been there for me, and I finally allowed myself to be open to it? Whatever the case, I think she could tell from my eyes what a comfort she was. The eyes don't lie.
It was a little after 11:00 when Liz read my mind about wanting to be alone and announced she should be getting home, uttering something about re-grouting her bathroom tile, which brought a smile to my befuddled face.
YOU ARE READING
Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks
HumorMusician Sam Greene will play the piano at any dingy Chicago establishment that will hire him. At the end of many evenings, he can count on his longtime mentor, jazz great Ben Webster (the piano player, not the sax player,) to join him for a few num...
