by Daryl Banner
I should enlist the help of a soothsayer to hasten this process.
Or a witch doctor.
I just always pictured my music with a different accompaniment. I can’t even enjoy the piano anymore because whenever I go to practice, Tomas is puppy-dogging right behind me. We almost never spend time apart, and yet I’m not really his girlfriend. We kiss. We cuddle. But that’s it. He hasn’t even tried to take my clothes off.
Is this normal? I don’t know. I try to talk to Dessie about it, but she’s always heading out when I call her. I’d ask Chloe, but she’s always complaining about something and I never get a word in. I would ask my new roommate Sarah, but she’s a professional lesbian and throws poison darts with her eyes every time Tomas comes by. I think Dessie ruined me for roommates forever; no one will ever live up to her.
I could ask Dmitri.
“What’s wrong?”
I look up at Tomas, who’s still stuffing his mouth. “Why?”
“Your face,” he says for an explanation. “Something’s wrong.”
I shake my head too quickly. “No, I’m fine. Everything’s great. I’m having a good time.” All the words come out in a perfect deadpan.
Tomas takes them as literal as ever. “That’s good. I don’t really find this meal to be that particularly exciting. I think they served this same thing yesterday. Bread is stale,” he complains, poking wincingly at the roll on his tray.
I take it, pull off a chunk, then dip it in my mashed potatoes.
“You’re so innovative,” he says as he watches me eat. “You always know how to make something out of nothing. It’s cool. I wanna make music the way you make music.”
The bread isn’t that stale, to be honest. Tomas is the pickiest eater I’ve ever met. “I still have so much to learn,” I confess. “Just because Brant wanted to photograph me in the piano room doesn’t mean—”
“I hope he captured your awesomeness.” Tomas flattens his lips, which is his way of smiling, I think. “I think I was in the picture, too.”
He compliments my music all the time, and given how literal and blunt he can be, I should take it that he truly means it and it’s not just flattery. Why can’t I hear his compliments and feel pleasure in them?
He clears his throat. “So you think you have more to learn about … dissonant counterpoint?”
I have to look up to see if he’s smiling, as if he just uttered his first quippy joke and the cloud of stoic nothingness I’ve known since the day I met him has finally cleared away. But I find Tomas’s blank stare returning my own, and I realize that he truly believes I was pondering on dissonant counterpoint while we were making out earlier.
“Yeah,” I lie, deflated.
“I never liked dissonance,” he mutters. “Unless you’re writing jazz, I don’t get seventh chords either.”
I love sevenths. I would fill a whole score with them if I could. And dissonant harmonics that break your heart. And off-chord melodies that surprise you with every turn, pulling you through the journey like a traveler through a forest in which she doesn’t belong, yet her heart still bursts with the inspiration of exploring the wild.
Music should always unravel you. It should unrest that intimate world inside you that you’re terrified for others to know. Music isn’t a science, despite all the science behind its notes. A melody is something you discover, never something you construct. It’s a phenomenon that happens like an accident: when you truly compose from your gut, you are never quite sure whether it’s you finding the music, or the music finding you. All you know is, miracles are happening beneath your fingers, and you’re ever so lucky to be a witness to it.
Unless you play the bassoon.
“Is your roommate staying out again tonight?” he asks.
“I think so. She mentioned something about seeing me Monday.”
“So you’re by yourself the whole weekend?”
I shrug. “I think so.”
“Would you be opposed to, like, me staying the night? I don’t really think I’ll feel like walking home that late, and … maybe we can finish up the rest of that show we were watching. If you want.”
My eyes flick to his at once. He said all of that to the carton of milk sitting in front of him while he spoons at what remains of a quaint pile of peas.
Is this the moment I’ve been waiting for? Is this when Tomas is going to take our relationship to the next step? Is this a relationship that can be brought to the next step? Is there a next step?
“Yes,” I answer, tension arresting the bones of my fingers.
He stops chewing and looks up. “Yes you’re opposed to it?”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, I meant, yes, let’s hang out tonight. No, I’m not opposed to it.”
“Oh, okay.”
Six tiny, fast-paced minutes later, we’re in my dorm and I’ve nicely excused myself to the bathroom where I freshen up, brush my teeth, check my breath three times, then prep myself down below. I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing, so I just put on a fresh pair of panties, spritz myself with perfume down there (it’s cold), and then reapply deodorant, certain I’d sweated every last bit of it off sitting in that stifling cafeteria downstairs during the dinner rush. I apply a fresh dab or two of lip gloss to give my mouth that sweet, cherry sheen, and then run a hand through my hair several times until it falls in its natural, black waves to my shoulders. I trade my glasses for contacts, then take a deep, steeling breath in the mirror. You got this, Sam. You’re ready.
Ready? To lose my virginity to a bassoonist?
In my dorm room?
The next minute, I’m sitting on my bed side-by-side with Tomas and watching as he frustratedly negotiates his way through the menus on the screen of my laptop, which is balanced perilously on the edge of the bed. My heart drums heavily as my fingers tap on my knees in little uneven rhythms that change every couple of seconds, like they can’t make up their mind. Sorry, Dad; I’d make a terrible drummer.
When the show is playing, he kicks back on the bed and folds his arms against his stomach, like he’s protecting it. Our sides touch, pressed together. We’re almost cuddling.
I’m not even watching the show. The anticipation of what might happen tonight is killing me.
Is he thinking similar things? Is he waiting for me to reach over and unzip his pants for the first time? Would he even let me? Will choirs emerge from my closet singing the glorious word of God when I free his beast?
Is it a beast? I almost don’t care at this point. He could be sporting four inches in a turtleneck and I’d still make him moan.
I made Dmitri moan. Don’t think about him right now.
Then, when the episode has only five minutes left, he asks me a question: “Can I hold you?”
“Yes,” I answer right away.
Tomas’s hands slip around me with ease, and suddenly I’m cradled against his chest, which is mostly flat and featureless. Regardless of the lack of meat and his overall boniness, there’s still something safe about being trapped in someone else’s arms. It fills up this empty part of me that’s been, for so long, craving this exact feeling.
Especially knowing that this feeling can last all night, if he was serious about staying.
Does he have a condom? I hope he has a condom.
Stay cool, Sam. Breathe.
Throughout the next episode, I remain in his arms, cuddled to his side. One of my arms is wrapped around his back and the other is gently lying on his waist. I don’t know why, but it only now occurs to me how close my hand is to his crotch.
Just another inch and my hand would be lying right on top of it.
Is he aware of that? Surely he’s aware of that.
With a totally faked yawn, I stretch out and snuggle a bit more against him, then let my hand drop slightly, a few fingers on top of his crotch and the rest at his waist. My heart dances eagerly. It’s a good thing my face is out of view because I’m staring right at his bulge.
Why isn’t he moving
at all? He should be encouraging me somehow with a nudge or a stroke of my arm. It’s so frustrating and it’s driving me crazy.
So I decide to instigate some trouble myself.
I let my fingers move a little. You can call it a subtle caress. Or a flinch with intention. Or a frolicking of fingers along the rolling hills of the crotch of his jeans. But that’s not far enough. I slide my fingers even lower until my entire hand is resting on his crotch. I could squeeze tightly with one sudden maneuver and own his balls in my soft, unassuming palm.
Something tells me he wouldn’t so much as wince.
Suddenly, I feel his arms move. My heart jumps with excitement until I realize he’s reaching under me and squeezing me in close to him like a hug, which both pulls my hand away from his crotch as well as brings my face closer to his face. But he doesn’t kiss me. After a sudden shift of his legs, he pulls me down with him onto the bed on our sides, turning me into his little spoon as he cuddles up against my backside.
Now my arms are pressed against my body by his, and the only things my hands touch are my own boobs.
Did that really just happen?
Did he just cock-block himself?
By the end of the next episode, I turn my head slightly and whisper, “Do you want to make out a little?”
I don’t hear a response. Is he considering it? Is that rough bit of material that’s poking my butt his crotch as he’s boning up, excited at the prospect of what we could do?
“Tomas,” I whisper, trying again. “Do you wanna kiss me?”
A light snore in my ear is my answer, the noise so sudden that I jerk with surprise, yet Tomas remains perfectly asleep.
Asleep.
I stare ahead at the wall across my room blankly, unable to believe that he actually, truly fell asleep. My mouth can’t close as I become so numb, I don’t even feel his arms around me anymore.
When my laptop gives off a low battery warning, I ignore it. My body’s battery is low, too. Five minutes later, the thing shuts off with a soft popping sound and a blank screen meets my eyes—a blank screen that reflects my glum, emotionless face right back at me.
And then I shut off.
Until my phone starts dancing on the desk next to my bed.
Pulling from Tomas’s vice-grip-caliber cage of arms ever slightly, I grab my phone and look at the screen. It’s Chloe calling.
Unsuccessfully, I try to pull out of Tomas’s grip, but he’s holding me too tightly. Succumbing to being stuck in his arms until he wakes or moves in his sleep, I answer the call and bring the phone to my ear, turning down the volume as low as it’ll go. “Hello?” I hiss.
“Sam. I need your advice. It’s sort of a 9-1-1 thing.”
Where Chloe’s concerned, just about anything can be a 9-1-1 thing, from a spider under her bed to a roommate being possessed by Satan.
I brace myself and whisper, “What’s wrong?”
“Uh, why are you whispering?”
“Tomas is asleep.”
“Oooh. I’ll make it quick. You still talk with Dmitri, right?”
I frown. I’m already suspicious. “Yes. Why?”
“You guys are still friendly?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about this woman who Brant is supposedly seeing? Some art major?”
I have no idea where she’s going with this. “Dmitri might’ve mentioned a girl Brant’s seeing. I don’t know. Why does it matter?”
“I just want to know,” Chloe answers defensively. “I mean, if Brant’s seeing the same girl for more than a week, that’s news, right?”
“I guess.”
“And I figured, since you and Dmitri are friends, maybe he might have said something to you that he, um … wouldn’t have said to me. Like, some juicy tidbit about this art major chick. Like, maybe that she was really ugly or treated Brant horribly or maybe was a total bitch to him and gave him what he deserved. I don’t know.”
I press my lips together. “Sorry, I’m not much more help than that.”
“Fine. No biggie. I always thought you and Dmitri would’ve made a cute couple. I mean, you sorta used to have a brother-sister vibe, what with you two looking like male and female clones of each other, but—”
“Clones??” I hiss.
“I’m kidding. It’s the glasses. Never mind. But then when he got all twisted up with Eric, and you started hanging out with Tomas, I guess it’s reasonable that you two make better friends.”
Her words repeat a few times in my head as I stare at the clock radio on my roommate’s desk across the room. Finally, in the middle of whatever Chloe starts chatting on about, I forget to whisper and, loud and proud, I say, “Eric?”
Chloe sputters a few times. “Huh? What about him? Did you hear what I said about Oberon’s costume?”
No, I didn’t hear a word. “Eric. You said something about Eric and Dmitri. I … I didn’t, um …” I lower my voice back to a whisper when I feel Tomas stirring at my side, adjusting his arms, then sinking back into sleep, his deep breath crashing against the back of my hair. “What did you mean by that?”
“Oh. I was just referring to Dmitri and Eric’s little fling. It didn’t last long, from what I gather. Dmitri pretends like no one knows about it, but Eric and I basically share a brain, so I know everything he knows. You do know Dmitri’s bi, right?”
I open my mouth to respond, then swallow a bit of air instead. No. I had no idea. Even now, I think she’s just sharing a hundred gossipy things she heard and never confirmed.
But Eric? She heard it from Eric, the source, Dessie’s friend, the one who she’s saying had a fling with Dmitri. Eric.
“Hello? Sam?”
“Yeah,” I answer quickly, then bring myself back to a whisper. “Yeah. I know he’s bi. Of course I knew that.” I’m staring now at the corner of the desk that hugs the side of the bed, focusing on the tiny little details of it as my mind swims away, fishing for clues that Dmitri might’ve left. I’m turning up totally empty. “Of course.”
“Anyway, Dmitri’s all twisted up with a girl in the creative writing department, last I heard from Eric, who heard something from Brant. Oh, maybe I should’ve asked Eric! He’ll know about this art chick. It’s just that Eric’s being so weird lately because he’s all about this Bailey guy, but he’s got his eye on Kirk. Oh! Do you know a Kirk? He’s a music major like you. He plays violin.”
I’m still staring at that desk, studying every fissure in the wood, every scrape that a pencil or scissor blade left, every discoloration from a bleeding highlighter or stroke of a pen. How could I have not known?
“I know a Bailey,” I mumble distractedly. “Small guy. I scared him the day he moved into his dorm as a freshman. He dropped his books. I see him sometimes in the cafeteria and he waves at me as if I wasn’t, for a second, the scariest thing to ever happen to him.”
“He’s adorable, but yeah, he’s a total twink. Twink? Is that the right word? I’m going to call Eric now, no matter how bad he hates talking on the phone. I’m going to get something out of him.”
“Why do you have to know?” I ask, not bothering to whisper. “If Brant’s seeing someone who makes him happy, then—”
“Oh, don’t even with that,” exclaims Chloe, acid coating her tongue in an instant. “It’s not my fault I can’t let go. Brant is an asshole, and I think this new art girl might want to know that.”
“Or you could nose out,” I suggest, finding a sudden spark of confidence I didn’t know lived inside me. It burns a rich, vibrant green, and it sings to me like a song I wish I wrote. “Maybe try to let him go. Maybe let him have a chance at happiness, and instead of trying to crush him, find a bit of happiness of your own.”
“You’re such an asshole, Sam.”
She hangs up. I let the phone drift from my ear, sliding down my pillow until it’s nested somewhere by my chest where Tomas’s hand lies motionless. Chloe will come around, I’m certain of it. She just gets into these weird, obsessive
ruts where she assigns herself a mission to distract herself from her own problems. Next time she sees me, she’ll forget she called me an asshole and just go on like nothing happened.
But unlike the four or five other times she’s called me an asshole, her words resonate in my chest. You do know Dmitri’s bi, right?
I roll a bit onto my back, which nestles me deeper into Tomas’s hold. He responds in his sleep by hugging me tighter. I should feel affection, but all I feel is suffocation.
Dmitri’s bi. Really, it shouldn’t surprise me. Honestly, it doesn’t really change anything. He was bi when he kissed me two years ago in this very room. He was bi when we ate lunch together and when we saw Dessie’s show and sat rows apart.
And he’s bi right now.
And he’s seeing some creative writing girl.
Is that his reaction to me dating a guy from the Music school? To go and find himself a writer in his own department?
Why am I so obsessed with what’s going on in Dmitri’s head when I’m wrapped up in the arms of another guy? Another guy who won’t even dignify me with the word “girlfriend”. It leaves me feeling so pathetic, like I’m spending my life waiting for someone to make something happen.
I’m standing in the bleachers of the game of my own life.
Maybe it’s that thought that makes me harden right up, every bit of me, visible and not. I feel my arms tighten, my stomach tighten, and my face turn rigid as the skull beneath it. My confidence grows hard as iron, and my resolve crystalizes like sand at the moment it’s struck by a big, brave bolt of lightning, leaving newborn glass in its wake.
“Tomas,” I say firmly, my voice loud enough to fill the room.
He moans and stirs, his grip on me loosening.
“Tomas,” I state again.
He lifts his head suddenly, as if an alarm woke him. Then he twists, noticing me, and he drowsily mumbles, “Did I fall asleep? I’m sorry. I’m up, I’m up. We can watch another episode.”
“Do you want to be my boyfriend or not?”
He blinks, his eyes turning into shimmering balls of ice. He might be peeing his pants right now. Not on my bed, he isn’t.