Before she can use a double entendre to describe her vibrator, Braden changes the station a couple of times until he lands on another clear one.
A song I don’t recognize is playing on this frequency. The voice singing it, however, is one that’s been haunting me for a month now.
“Oh, nice,” Braden says over the middle of a verse. “I heard she was supposed to be releasing something soon.”
It has a reggaeton rhythm but a little faster, almost like ska.
Harmony sings:
What do you get when you put one and one together
And the feeling between us is like denim on leather?
It’s a force to be reckoned, I couldn’t resist,
But now I’ve had a second to think since we kissed
Everything about you is nothing but fiction,
Your face is a facade, your words a contradiction,
Rub me that way and you’ll only get friction
And at first it feels good …
Then it sets fire to the wood
My manager is already bopping his head, his upper lip curled in appreciation of the scathing lyrics.
The memory of that night at the Pinkfeather Resort comes back to me all at once.
Standing alone in the garden, ensconced in the shadows between light posts.
Harmony Sonora stepping out in green velvet and black leather, all flushed and flustered.
She was so different from the woman I’d seen on TV answering late-show questions or singing into a microphone over screaming fans. For an instant, she didn’t seem like she had it all together.
For whatever drama seems to follow her in the press, I’ve always appreciated her melodies and her wordplay.
The phrase “If only I could find a way to stay afloat, in alternating currents of the words I wrote” has lived rent free in my brain for years now. So when I finally had the chance to bask in her presence, the moment was completely surreal.
And then she was so down to earth—vulnerable, even. A few minutes into a conversation with her and it didn’t feel like either of us were celebrities; we were just two humans looking for a breath of fresh air.
Before I knew it, we were practicallysharinga breath, her mouth soft and sweet on mine. I can still taste her, if I close my eyes and try.
The day after the release party, I called her but her manager said she didn’t want to talk. That’s what happened every time, so after a few more tries, I quit.
Now I analyze the words of this new song during its instrumental interlude, my heart pounding like a kick drum.
She’s not talking about me, I tell myself.
Harmony Sonora writes about her exes. I’m not an ex. We made out once. And sure, there was some groping too. And shecame, fully clothed, against me. And I have to actively force myself not to think about it when I wake up in the dead of night. Hell, even right now it’s doing something to me I can’t explore while Braden and so many other people are at my house. But I wouldn’t say any of that was enough to even be considered afling. Was it?
On the other hand, the friction metaphor is pretty damning—and so is the specific “denim on leather.” Not to mention the part where she mentions fiction and facade.
However, when she sings the bridge and includes the line “Like ariffin a song that’s been playing too long,” there’s no room left for doubt.
She said my fucking name.
