Not that I’m even remotely under the impression that any of them have actually been for me.
Awed by what I heard that first night, I haven’t dared touch my own piano since.
He—because late morning on Monday, I heard the sound of a phone, set to some sort of musical ring tone I didn’t quite catch, followed by the muffled answering murmuring of a voice, not especially deep, but unmistakably male—apparently has a wide range of taste in his music. Everything he plays though, from classical pieces to jazz to the melodies of indie rock songs both old and new, comes out with a one-of-a-kind individuality. The notes meander away from the familiar tunes, dancing and playful and curious.
And however long he plays, it’s never enough. Every time silence falls again on the other side of the wall, I’m left longing for more.
I have to admit, confirmed introvert as I am, something about the flowing grace of that music has made me just about crazy with curiosity to actually meet him. Much as I try to tell myself that the way he plays has positively nothing to do with how he looks, I can’t help the glorified images my mind paints of a brooding, dreamily handsome Mr. Darcy-ish figure, giving his head a little shake to flick locks of dark hair from his eyes as he leans gracefully over the keys he strokes with long, elegant fingers.
Doesn’t anyone who plays like thathave tobe absurdly gorgeous?
The obvious answer isno. They don’t.
My new neighbor could be an identical replica of Mr. Thorpe, for all I know.
And since when have I been so shallow? Not only does his playing not mean he’s physically attractive, he could be an absolute asshole, whatever he looks like.
I jerk to a halt, forcing a pair of women walking down the sidewalk behind me to veer quickly around me to keep from crashing into my back.
Goddammit. Maybe Alex is right, and that bullshit plan he’s backed me into has some merit after all. If I’m fantasizing over my unknown neighbor, based solely on his piano playing, that might be a fair indication that I really do need to have some fun.
Maybe, as he said, I do need toget some.
Okay, not just maybe.
It has, after all, been an embarrassingly and depressingly long time.
My sporadic and infrequent dating hasn’t resulted in anything more than a few rather lackluster encounters thathaven’t gone all that far anyway. And I’m definitely not one for the random hook-up.
Why this forced exercise in breaking out of my reclusive ways should end any differently though, I have no idea.
The truth is that it’s been since… It’s been several years since I’ve experienced anything approaching good sex.
Not that I’ve actually— Not since—
And it’s not the couple men I’ve fooled around with who’ve been to blame; a deeply dismal and depressing thought that doesnothingto boost my dregs of what might, very charitably, be called confidence.
Since Stephen, any sort of sexual act has felt…like an act. Like motions I’m running through because I’m supposed to, no matter how much it feels like I might want it in theory. The moment I’m faced with the reality, skin against skin, hands and lips and bodies touching—even just for a kiss, all I feel is empty and unsatisfied.
And so fucking lonely.
Stepping into the coffee-scented wall of warmth that greets me when I pull open the door of Upshot provides just the distraction I need from the spiral of thoughts that carried me along the remaining blocks. Though it’s on the border of the U District, this spot is still near enough to campus that a majority of the tables and nooks are taken up with students buried in books or laptops, studying. Despite a low murmur of voices, the space is, as always, quiet enough for the comforting background of nondescript coffee shop mood music that’s always playing.
Today, it’s some faintly jazzy piano recording. Soothing, but I can’t help thinking, boring. As the predictable notes unfold, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the seamless flowin and out of a complimentary yet utterly new melody that, of course, doesn’t come.
Apparently, the last few days of Mystery Neighbor’s playing have well and truly embedded themselves in my musical tastes and expectations.
Though most of the seats are full, there’s no one in line ahead of me. This place is never actually busy. Not that many people come here in total, but the crowd that does end up here tends to curl up and stay, focused in on their own projects rather than drifting in and out. It’s definitely not the sort of spot where you get stuck making small talk while you wait around for your drink like many of the coffee shops nearer to campus that are always packed with a revolving cast of students and professors.
It’s not until I’m already at the counter that I look up long enough to realize the man standing behind it isn’t one of the handful of baristas I’d expected to see. To say Iknowany of them would be a ludicrous stretch of the word, but I come here enough that I recognize all of them.
Except for this one.
His back is turned to me as he fiddles with the espresso machine, blasting the steam wand clean with a puff of vapor, so all I can make out of him is the effortless perfection of his black hair—probably dyed, my mind supplies, given the fact that where the warm, low overhead lights reflect against it, it picks up an unnatural purplish glint. It’s slightly curled at the ends so it flips up away from the back of his neck and from the firm, straight line of his jaw. Longish without being actually long—
Just long enough that you could get a good grip on a silky-soft handful of it.
A rush of heat floods my cheeks at the unexpected, not to mention utterly inappropriate and completely fixating, thought. Suddenly, I can’t stop myself from raking my eyes over the barista, taking in every detail of him I can glean. As I watch, he shifts, back still turned, now wiping down the counter in front of the machine with a rag grasped in a hand marked along the back with an intricate pattern, tattooed in black against his pale skin.
