Page 62 of Riesling with My Roommate

My whole face lights up, and Chris smiles in response. “I would love to.”

I leave my shoes on the kitchen floor and trail behind him into the studio. I haven’t been in here since the day I discovered he was a musician, but it looks the same. Chris is still messy with his papers but tidy with his guitars, each in its own stand and glossy. Instead of the overhead lights being on, the room is only lit by the desk lamp. I imagine him here, hunched over the desk, writing until it got too dark and he had to turn on the lamp. Or, perhaps, he sat in the dark playing by feel until he heard us enter the house.

He picks up one of the guitars, an acoustic, plain wood and simple. “I’m going to play one for you that the band probably won’t ever use. It’s not really our style, but you might like it.”

He drags a small black stool over from the corner and sets it next to his—close together. It takes me a moment to figure out where to put my knees when we’re sitting this close and he’s got a guitar in his lap.

The blonde curtain of hair falls over his face, and he pauses for a moment, fingers held over the strings. Flicking his hair out of the way, he glances up at me. “This is rough, okay?”

I swallow. There’s something in the way he says rough that catches me. Like this is a vulnerable side to Chris, and I think back on our conversation about impostor syndrome.

I know I’m going to like whatever it is that he’s written. Already I can feel the emotion in it, and he hasn’t strummed a cord.

And then he starts, and while last time I was looking at his hands and watching him play, this time I look at his face. His face, which already looks a little other-worldly to me, becomes achingly beautiful. He sings lightly, and it takes me a few rounds of the chorus to catch up with the lyrics.

It’s about a woman who wears a dress bought by her lover. A dress that makes her feel beautiful, a dress that reminds him of why he loves her.

Chris is right; it’s not something I could picture his band playing. This song should be played by a lone singer on a stool, in an intimate setting, with a quiet audience.

Or maybe not even that.

Maybe it’s meant to be sung for just one person, the lyrics whispered in the dark with powerful emotions trembling within the words.

Chris’s eyes open, and moments later, the music trails off. I don’t think it was the end of the song. His words die, a note resonating between us even when the guitar string has stopped vibrating.

The space between us shrinks, me leaning in, and even though he couldn’t see me when his eyes were closed, he has leaned in too. In the dark shadows of the room, Chris’s eyes have lost the vibrancy they usually have, but the muted greens and golds and browns make me think of the woods surrounding his house.

His eyes flick down, and he kisses me.

It’s like the song, slow and sweet and careful. Chris’s mouth grazes mine, my breath hitches, and we move together. My eyes flutter closed, and his mouth eases mine open. Those lips that just sang to me, the ones that shaped the words, take on a new form, perfect and soft and warm and new.

With a swipe of his tongue, Chris asks for entrance, and I let him in. He tastes like fire, not a cigarette like I expected, but burning embers.

With the guitar between us, there’s no way to get closer, no easy way to touch each other. The air shifts as he removes the guitar from between us, and then it gives a mild twang and thump as it hits the carpet.

And then his hands are on my waist, pulling me in. I slide onto his lap, my legs straddling him easily. He groans when his hands find the hem of my dress, but he just lightly brushes against my skin at the edge.

Beneath me, Chris is hard. My hands rest on his shoulders, more of a steadying grip than an embrace. I could easily melt into a puddle right here.

I don’t know how long we kiss, but it’s long enough that when Chris finally eases away, my lips are tender, and the cool air of the room is shocking.

Chris looks drugged. There’s a hazy quality about him that recedes the more we stare at each other.

I swallow and blink. “I liked it,” I say.

His Adam’s apple bobs, and Chris licks his lips. “I liked it, too.”

The corner of my mouth quirks and draws his eye. “I meant the song, but yes, I liked the kiss too.”

He laughs, the sharp movement of his chest jostling my hands down from his shoulders to his pecs. He moves, too, sliding his hands from my thighs to around my waist.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, and I look down at his lips, slightly reddened and plump. I want to kiss him again, but before I move, he parts his lips and says, “You should probably get to bed.”

When he sees my hesitation, my slight disappointment, he chuckles. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Very excited to see you again. To do that again.”

“Okay,” I say, and we smile at each other. Chris keeps his eyes on my face while I slide off his lap. His hands curve around the back of my thighs, and in a moment that I know I’ll replay a thousand times tonight in my head, he leans in and nuzzles my hip.

“Sleep well,” he says, and it takes a colossal amount of strength to pull away from him and leave the room.

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