I'm alone on a Saturday night, melancholy because I ache with longing whenever he's not around, and ache with the knowledge that I might never be allowed tell him so. He surprises me with a phone call, and I smile at the molasses in his voice that indicates he's very mellow - "half-baked". He's rambling about the usual; music and movies and his friends, but also about what a great time we had last night, and I sense that he's called because he's still feeling traces of the connection. I listen for probably an hour, curled up into a corner of my sofa, joking around with him until he's ready to hang up the phone. He hears the hesitation in my voice, and asks me if I want to say something.
And I ask if I can come over. The question alone is a huge step for me, because I cannot bear to invite myself anywhere, and I'm holding my breath, waiting to determine his reaction from the tone of his voice even more than the actual words he will say. He doesn't realize the magnitude of my action, and graciously acquiesces to my request. I can sense his gentle mood of indulgence toward me, and it eases my anxiety.
The room is dark, the way I like it. It's cool, and he's rearranged the furniture so that we can better see the television. I take my place on the sofa, a bit further away than usual. He needs his space tonight, and I'm more than willing to give it to him - I don't want to disturb the bond of friendship between us.
I have my first taste of Diana Krall in this room, on this night. My initial jealousy, based on his blatant infatuation with the woman is overwhelmed as I slide into her music, and I begin to feel the instruments resonate within my mind. I am enthralled as I stare at the screen while she performs. His commentary, pointing out various nuances in her technique builds on my own knowledge of music and I begin to feel my pulse shift, easing into the rhythm from her bass player. I'm feeling the marijuana take effect in my arms and legs, and it wraps gentle hands around my skull, massaging my scalp. The room grows darker as my pupils dilate in the glow of the television, and I can barely move my head to glance at him from the corner of my eye. He is completely under her spell, but the magic that has woven itself throughout my bones is a combination of him, the pot, and the music. Each influence pulls my mind in a different direction, and I unconsciously allow the music, and the video, to manipulate my mind, while the marijuana works my body over.
Five notes.
There is a five-note bass riff that has carried the blues through the mists of musical time - and when I hear it, my mind is immediately transported to a smoky, dark club where some amalgam of every blind black blues guitarist has blended into one soulful soothsayer, one gravel-voiced troubadour who is indistinguishable as he sits on a stool in the center of a stage, a solitary light illuminating his grizzled head. Five notes, repeated, with a subtle two-note rhythm in the back beat, and my body immediately responds, anticipating each measure as my eyes close and my hips sway, and my shoulders develop that swagger that is only brought to life by the blues.
I'm curled in a ball on the sofa when those five notes are first struck, and unthinkingly my body begins to elongate, my legs stretch out and I slide down in my seat. My eyelids are at half-mast, barely responding as I smile in his general direction. There's a sentence forming in my head, and the hemped-up influence forces me to think and re-think, and AGAIN re-think it before I can force the words out of my mouth, past my pout.
"That has got to be my most favorite musical cliche' of all time."
His cigarette stops, halfway to his lips, and he turns his head. He looks at me but doesn't say a word. The expression I see crossing his face tells me he's totally soaking in what I've said - and I know that it will stick with him forever. I know that every time he hears this song, or even that riff played by someone else, he will think of my words, and he will be transported back to this moment in time - he'll feel the high, he'll remember the sight of me there on his sofa, half-conscious; and some day, he will repeat those words. He will not claim them as his own, but he will repeat them to someone else, and either attribute them to me, or to that other woman that so often is confused with me in his mind.
And he'll feel a tug in his chest, which he will dismiss with a shake of his head, and try to ignore. Maybe, someday, he'll manage to put me out of his mind, until the association is just a brief flicker of memory.
But as long as I live - no matter where I go, no matter what I do, any time I hear a bass begin the blues, I will be instantly transported back to that moment in time as well. I will remember the way he chuckled and pulled me close when I snuggled underneath his arm that night. I will remember the way his kiss blanked my mind, the way the back of his head felt in my hand, and the way he hugged me when I left him. And I'll wish he were there, wherever I am - listening with me and watching me, learning me and figuring me out.
This is why I will probably never go to New Orleans again. I just can't imagine being there without him.
![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yohimberedheadasks why her family laughs when she threatens to kill them, and I tell her "Perhaps it's because you choke on your follow-through." Very few would be astute enough to laugh. 
