Page 55 of Your Rhythm
“You’re so fucking emo.”
“Amnot.”
“Yes, you are,” I insist. “I bet you were a major emo kid in middle school.”
She just fumes and I know I’m right.
“Any other artistic representations of your personality traits I should know about?” I ask.
“I think it’s your turn to share.”
“Right. My turn. This one,” I say, tapping the shape of a sound-wave the runs along the outside of one of my forearms, “is from ‘Everlong’ by the Foo Fighters. You know that whispery part where no one actually knows what he’s saying? It’s that.”
Her eyes go wide, watching me with an expression I can’t read. “You’re kidding me.”
“Yeah, I know it’s not very original,” I concede. “It’s, what, one of the most famous songs ever? I guess I just like that there’s so much mystery about that one part, how no one totally understands this thing that’s touched so many people.”
She’s still staring at me like she can’t quite process the words I’m saying.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
Instead of answering, she sits up and lifts one arm over her head so I can see the words inked on the side of her rib cage, just below side boob territory. I noticed the tattoo earlier, but didn’t stop to read it. I was a little more concerned with front boob territory at the time.
“Well, shit,” I murmur, once I make out the words. The coincidence leaves me breathless.
It’s two lines from the chorus of ‘Everlong.’
“First concert I ever went to,” she says slowly, “was the Foo Fighters, in Toronto. I got this done the day I turned eighteen. That song, it...it reminds me why I do this, this whole music journalism thing.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “I guess it’s official, then.”
“What is?”
“We’re made for each other.”
She reaches over and tries to shove me off the bed.
“Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Pearson.”
“Careful!” I shout, holding a hand up to defend myself. “Watch the pickle! It’s very sensitive, much more sensitive than it looks.”
“Oh, I’ll show you what ‘sensitive’ means,” she grumbles.
“Was that a threat or a come-on?”
She grins. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what part of me you want to come on.”
* * *
It’s almostfour in the morning by the time we’re finished with round two. I head into the bathroom to clean up a bit, even though I’d happily keep the smell of her on my skin forever if I could. The smell, the sound, the fuckingtasteof her—it’s still on my lips, every breath reminding me of her hands in my hair as she pulled my tongue deeper between her legs, screaming out my name for the whole hotel to hear.
I wish there were more hours between midnight and dawn.
When I leave the bathroom, I find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing an oversized Chili Peppers tour t-shirt and a different pair of underwear.
