I sit in a large overstuffed armchair, my leg draped over one arm, my hand draped over the other, and I graze my fingertips against the cool glowing dark skin of her shoulders.
She is young, slender, her hair cropped in short shiny Afro curls. I hesitate to touch her.
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I hoped to be with her but she is Elaine’s friend and they are hanging out together.
They stretch out on the carpet, on their stomachs, elbows propped up, face to face, talking. A black and white movie is on the TV.
I leave the room, but when I return I realize I do not have anything left for her.
Later still. We are lying on the floor, locked in an embrace. I see her round face up close, paler than I imagined, with freckles and random orange strands of hair pulled up tight and back from her forehead.
She is hoping to stay in the country, she says.
Chick Corea, his band behind him, stands by the French doors, tells me to put on some music, the first song, it is called Measure One on side one. He hands me a sleek black box which I examine carefully.
And so I oblige, reaching across, to slot the old fashioned cartridge into the player.
Photo by Sweet Evie via Flickr
