His mouth hung open, blue-grey smoke twisting between the slit, cigarette caught in the pinch of his thumb. The guitar sat comfortably in his lap, shoulders hunched to tighten strings. He held it with reverence, thumb stroking idly at the wood. Somewhere in the grain ventured sleepy absolution.

I sat close. Close, but far away. On the periphery of every margin. Tucked safe to watch, to listen, just to see the soft tilt of his mouth working wet against the filter. Baby-fine and gentle; mic a thief to trap each rasping breath. And from so close, so far, my fingers burned to grace his pulse. Nothing more. No other license offered except his beat. Strong, caged life harbored beneath muscle, vein, and skin.

Quiet, legs crossed, hands captured over knee, I shut my eyes and waited for the first whiskey stroke of his voice, gravel-rough, cavern-deep. To

touch
touch
touch
touch
touch me everywhere. The shiver-shock whispering. Mushroom-blossom passion ghosting over bone.

Then he started to sing. Savage-sweet, mellow-smooth. Drunk on it. On life. On love. The boundless proximal... energy. Veteran fingertips fathering a background lower than his voice. The two soldiering the onus of lights and stage, severed from the crowd.

He finished. To an audience wail. Sweat damp hair, eyes like sea-stone. Beautiful, tumultuous coldness. And I considered. For one concentrated second, I considered. Becoming all the things I abhor. Becoming, for pleasure’s sake, the Aphrodite. Lullable siren in the zero hour.

To feel breath and voice and body. Soft, angry, hard. I considered.

And still... I left the room with nothing but the smoke and sound.