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Is it just me, or is there something deviant about phrasing it like that?
My right hand finds the keys as my left reaches for the bellows at the back.
I just want to watch you…
I look up. “This isn’t some weird kink of yours, is it?”
“I don’t know yet,” he replies, utterly unironically. “If it is, it would be one of thetamerones, Indigo.”
Holy fucking shit.
“Well, in fairness, I did ask,” I mutter to myself, glancing up to find his eyes luminous in the muted orange light seeping into the room with the hot late-May sun sliding low over DC behind us.
I look down at the keys and then at my body. I’m realizing my white T-shirt is very weathered and you can definitely kind of see my bright magenta yoga bra underneath it. And as for the position I’m sitting in, it isn’t exactly the most elegant. I’m sitting cross-legged and feel kind of… exposed, despite my pants.
Thank God the wooden body of the harmonium sitting on the ground before me is blocking the view, but it does feel a bit indecent in light of the fact that this man is basically a walking vibrator pulsing the air around him and the bodies of everyone in his vicinity.
Plus, I’m used to playing in front of a dozen or so people, not performing impromptu one-woman shows for random hot pricks.
Deciding to play the melody to theHo?oponoponomeditation of reconciliation and forgiveness that I sing at the end of some of the yoga classes I give as it at least has a distinct melody, I begin to play, my right hand slow-dancing over the keys, my left pushing and pulling on the bellows which produce the sound—kind of like an accordion but much deeper.
As I play, I recite the words of the meditation in my head.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I call upon them at times when the anger caused by my maternally challenged mother or my abusive ex gets too much, singing the words over and over until the worst of the rage and resentment passes and the emotion travels through me, emerging more often than not as tears that stream down my face and leave me basking in a fleeting sense of much-needed peace… until the hurt builds up again, at least.
As my fingers and the instrument create the music, my body can’t help but move a little, swaying backwards and forwards, as I hear the words in my head.
After a minute or so, I glance upwards to find Grayson watching me, utterly focused, his eyes either locked onto mine or drifting to my hands.
As I come to the end of the song, I refrain from putting my hands to my heart and peer up at him, waiting for what seems like forever for him to speak.
“That was beautiful,” he says, a breeze from the open balcony door to the left making his thick chestnut brown hair ruffle.
“It’s not quite the same without the words.”
“It reminds me of when my mother used to play music to me when I was a child.”
Wow, a tiny glimmer into the personal world of Mr. Everitt…
“She doesn’t anymore?”
“No. She stopped.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’d like you to sing for me, Indigo.”
“What? Look, no offense, but I’m not putting on a private concert here.”
“I hear you singing from my apartment.”
