It's in these early hours that both Mind and Body are a little on edge. Scared and mistrustful when it comes to familiar things. The floor fan. The light switch. The bathroom sink. Silent things seem suspiciously animate. Quiet things seem downright rowdy. And loud things seem...goddamned ferocious. . . .
The thing is, even when it's right in front of you, sometimes it's not entirely clear what it is you're dealing with. People surprise you. Characters surprise you. And fetching papers doesn't always bring the results you want. . . .
Of course, there's Mike. I could see him. But some things seem too dangerous, even for somebody like me. I'm old enough to know a man like him is no good for me. I'm also old enough to know that that's what makes him the perfect kind. Also, I've already fucked myself twice today. So...there's that. And besides, I'd have to shave my legs. . . .
Whatever. Here's what I know about music: I like being a little surprised by it. I like playing with people and feeling the pull of that thing you're doing take you where it wants you to go. And tapping into the energy, on stage and off. And just feeling a little awed by it. Letting the sounds rush over you. The sounds. Drowning out everything and forever. And feeling your heart race because you're not sure where this thing is taking you exactly, and it may drop off the next cliff, but it'll be one hell of a ride if it does. . . .
Aside from the way he looks, everything else I know about him is a product of my imagination: He's smart, but he doesn't talk unless he has something to say. His humor is understated, like his strength. He loves the people in his life to the point that it hurts. . . .
So this morning he came back. Mike, I mean. I considered not answering again, but figured that might get awkward. I opened the door in white pajamas, the top casually unbuttoned, revealing and covering, like a wish. I hadn't looked at my hair, but I knew it was pleasingly disheveled. Men have told me I look sexy in the morning. Like I don't know this? Like I don't know exactly what the fuck I look like in the morning? . . .
