Half-Resurrection Blues_ A Bone Street Rumba Novel - Daniel Jose Older Page 0,41
finally did it—a rainy afternoon toward the end of summer—the shit woke me up from one of those deep-as-an-abyss type naps. They were quiet; don’t get me wrong. I think her old grandma was only a few rooms away in her rocking chair, so they had to keep it down. But the vibrations. You could feel ’em tumbling through the air like tsunami after tsunami, a relentless, joyful series of explosions that momentarily collapsed the natural order of things. A giddy kind of chaos burned among the exploding molecules around me. I knew it was happening and smiled. I’m sure even Grandma’s dreams simmered with those colliding, gravity-stricken teenagers. I’m sure she woke up smiling and confused, hopefully none the wiser.
The drumbeat kept up all through the afternoon—I was impressed, actually—and simmered into a gentle caress as night fell. The whole block burned with it, pulsed with it, and when the lights came on to fight off the coming dark, they glowed brighter for the ferocity of that loving, that true sheet-grabbing throb that emanated from the sweat-soaked room on the third floor.
Gravity.
* * *
Outside, the snow keeps falling. I take the back of Sasha’s neck in my hand and put our faces together. The sky is dark blue and flecked with white. I’ll move slow, because I feel the momentum as it wraps around her. The promise of all that’s about to come slides up her legs, weakens her knees, caresses her thighs, and really—there’s no rush.
We have arrived.
My other hand is on her cheek; her arms reach up, encircle my neck. She brings her face up to mine, her lips up to mine. Her skin is cool; my skin is cool. The place where our lips meet is on fire. I’m taller than her and broad where she’s slender, but still: we mirror. The word finally swims through my mind, and then our tongues find each other and do battle and there are no more words. Her hips find mine. I’m rock-hard and let her know with a nudge. Her legs spread and I lift her up into the air, wrap her around me.
The snow’s in no hurry. It’ll always get where it’s going. When it moves fast, clamoring over itself to cascade in all those frantic rivulets, it’s not rushing, just following the pattern the wind has set for it. Teasing gravity, and gravity plays along because they both know, in the end, gravity always wins. Her skin is off-brown against white sheets as she lies back and slides easily out of her clothes. My arms are on either side of her; I’m a shelter above her. I press forward against her and stop, allowing the gravity to collect around us, the sheer, impossible joy of standing on that precipice, her juices flowing, inviting me inside. I wait for her to moan with blissful impatience and then inch forward, and she plays along because we both know, in the end, gravity always wins.
* * *
“You want to hear a song?”
I do, but I’m still groggy and delicious-feeling from those two rapid-fire orgasms that blew through my body like nuclear explosions. I rub my eyes and say, “Yes, please.” She grins, excited like a little kid, and shuffles out of the blankets, reaching across me to the stereo beside her bed. It’s one of those old-fashioned deals with a record player on top and a million buttons. The bedside table actually is one of the speakers, I realize. It’s huge.
A sad piano progression chimes out over some rumbling bass notes. It’s got an old barroom blues feel, all jangly and almost dissonant, and then the drummer kicks in with a modern march, smooth but insistent, and the whole thing comes together: a rickety old soldier stumbling through the rain. It’s just a pretty song until the singer starts. Then something happens. I don’t know shit about music, so I couldn’t tell you if it’s the key she’s singing in, or the way her voice slides in between the notes like she’s flirting with them, or just the simple truth of her sorrow, coming straight out of her mouth, but whatever it is, the song lays me down and eases all my blissfully aching muscles. It creeps inside my heart, circulates into my bloodstream.
“You like it?”
Apparently I do, because I’m smiling pretty hard and I don’t really do that a lot. “What is it?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. Trevor brought it home one time, something he dug up in some