Page 351 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He adjusts his cuff slow, glancing sideways at me with a knockout smile. “I’m all about grand gestures.”

I start the last verse:

“You were this close⁠—”

“to breaking my heart.”

“Sure, blame it on the city…”

“For trying to keep us apart.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re mine.”

“Almost died of frostbite.”

“Merry Christmas, baby…

“Now we have today, tomorrow,

“and the rest of our lives.”

And we finish together,

his voice catching mine by the waist:

“Merry Christmas, baby…”

“We have the rest of our lives.”

The piano fades.

The applause peaks.

But the room falls mute to me.

I’m standing, transfixed,

still gasping on third-degree shock,

staring at the side of Teddy’s face,

a poet in pressed slacks,

trapped between an old-time dream

and a catastrophic state of horniness.

Not my proudest autonomic response.

But ninety percent of my orgasms,

regardless of whether self-induced,

have been bound to his voice,

his face,