Page 97 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
We talk and nap and shower and eat and make love.
Everywhere, we make love.
He shows me his music collection. I’m introduced to jazz greats John Coltrane, Nina Simone, and Thelonious Monk. From jazz he moves to opera, much of which I’m already familiar with. We listen in silence to Maria Callas sing “Madame Butterfly,” and I’m moved to tears.
“She wasn’t the most technically gifted soprano who ever lived, but she was the most honest, the most passionate,” says A.J. reverently at the end of the song. “She lived for her art. I see it in the colors of her voice. Opera was the love of her life.”
He turns to me with his gorgeous golden eyes ablaze with emotion, those words hanging between us. The love of her life.
I turn away before I make a fool of myself, and ask him to show me more.
We cover big band, swing, blues, hip-hop, R&B, soul, grunge, reggae, Goth. His knowledge of his industry is remarkable. He talks at length about the origin of punk rock, the best musicians who never made it big, why disco was the worst thing ever to happen to music. He knows the lyrics to a seemingly infinite number of songs by heart, singing along as the song plays, carrying a tune perfectly. We play a game where he bets me I can play any song in his collection and he’ll be able to immediately recognize it, and correctly sing the first line.
“If I’m wrong, or I miss any of the lyrics, you win. But if I’m right, I win.”
“Anyone can get lucky and guess one song,” I scoff, folding my arms across my chest.
“Okay . . . how about twenty songs?”
He’s already told me he has over five thousand CDs in the wall unit in his room. I’m crap at math, but figure if each CD has roughly ten songs, that’s around fifty thousand songs we’re talking about. I begin to feel smug.
“What do I get when I win?”
He grins. “A kiss.”
“Hmm. And if you win?”
His grin grows wicked. I roll my eyes, pretending that smile doesn’t do all sorts of bad things to my body. Bad and very wonderful things.
He wins, of course. I halfheartedly accuse him of cheating, just before he throws me over his shoulder and heads for the bed.
Those forty-eight hours are the most magical of my life. I don’t want our time together to ever end.
But, of course, it does.
Just
not how I’ve been expecting.
The smell of coffee wakes me. When I open my eyes, A.J. is kneeling on the mattress beside me, holding a freshly brewed cup. He’s shirtless and smiling, two of my favorite things.
Smiling in return, I rub my fist into my eye and sit up. “What time is it?”
“Eight a.m., baby, Monday morning. Time for you to go back to work.”
Oh my God, it’s Monday. I freeze. My mind goes blank. My pulse begins to pound so loudly in my ears I have to concentrate on what I say next. “That’s right. Our . . . our week is up.”
Looking completely unfazed, A.J. hands me the coffee. “Technically, our week was up a few days ago.”
I’ve overstayed my welcome. I look down at the mug in my hands. My face is so hot my ears are scalding.
“You hungry? There’s cereal.”
The thought of food turns my stomach. “No, thank you.” I can barely form the words. I’m leaving. This is it. It’s over. “I . . . I’ll just get ready then . . . take a shower . . .”
“Okay.” He says it with so much cheer I’m gripped by a violent urge to slap his face.
I’m leaving today. Our time is over. And A.J. doesn’t give one single fuck.
