OPHELIA
“Let me see.”Damien leans across me, grabbing hold of my notations, then his body stays there, breathing against the sensitive shell of my ear until every nerve is wide awake, only then slouching back in his seat, reading my scribbles.
Meanwhile my body is in chaos, caught between wanting to punch him and curl into his lap, purring.
Whatever sick part of my brain he activated on Wednesday, he got me good. I close my eyes and concrete grit scrapes my tongue, the salty, smoky taste of his release overshadowed.
He’s depraved… which shouldn’t explain why I’m eagerly anticipating the coming weekend.
“Well…?” I say, like being critiqued is the only reason I’m nervous.
I’m not looking directly at him, but still feel his gaze land on my face, hear his smile. “Just playing it through in my head.”
I shove my chair back, tilting my ear towards the keyboards playing in the next room. A Dylan-esque melody hums throughthe wall, another student struggling to produce something original.
Ballad in Plain D, my phone confirms.
“What is it?”
I show Damien the phone screen, then wheel my chair back under the desk, bumping his knee, then holding the contact.
“You’d think they’d copy something more popular.”
“It’s not like the plagiarism is intentional.”
After my first few dozen attempts at original songwriting, I managed to ‘accidentally recreate’ so many existing refrains, I now routinely check everything online before submitting my assignments.
Damien’s still focused on the sheet, and I can’t ask him again, not without seeming desperate. I grab the acoustic guitar and begin plucking out notes, not playing a tune, just picking at random. Playing away my jitters.
Finally, his verdict. “It’s not bad.”
I strum a bum chord. “Why did I think I could write?”
“You didn’t. Whoever planned this curriculum did.”
My lips press together as I play more notes, tilting back and staring blankly at the ceiling. Sometimes Damien’s empathy gap is freeing and other times…?
His shoulder brushes my calf as he dives under the table, plugging in the keyboard. “Listen to this.”
A slow melody fills the room, haunting. The ancient Yamaha’s reverberation echoes like a warning.
On the second time through, it gets better, my internal ear anticipating the notes, adding new melodics, strengthening the harmony.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “We’ve found another thing you excel in.”
His mouth is near my shoulder. His chuckle vibrates in my skin. “This wasn’t me.”
“You must be playing it wrong then because this”—I show him the app—“has nothing.”
Damien taps on his phone, and after a few seconds, my guitar picking floods the room. “You should record yourself not writing songs more often. I doubt this is the only goldmine you’ve uncovered.”
“Give me that.”
I grab his phone and play it back again, holding the speaker against my ear, eyes closed.
It’s true. The tune came out of me without even knowing.
“Thank you.” The words can’t match the relief pouring out of me. Ever since we received the assignment back in term one, I’ve been stressing over this original piece. Now in five minutes with Damien, it’s practically done. All I have to do is write it down.
