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Three Seconds In the Lives of Two Young People Who Haven't Met


If she could touch him. A real touch. Not simply to reach across the barrier and grasp his upper arm for this brief, perfect, lovely moment, before he pulls away, smiling into her eyes so she knows he's not offended. She wants a real touch. His face. A caress. His chest. Her hand, flat. His breath--up, down, up, down.

           If he could know she is what he wants to guess she is. Not from her frantic hands or her reaching eyes. But from her smile, less manic, real, more than some teenybopper who believes the shit in the latest fan rag.

           She knows he's as gentle as his eyes on the cover of her favorite album.

           He knows she may be here for a different man than who he is.

           She often fantasizes the two of them in ritual sex of gothic proportions. A ceremonial bed of marble in a torch-lit granite chamber. Hot. Drums. Salt.

           He always hopes to find a friend as intimate as his muse. He dreams to kiss her with the words of his songs, to embrace her with his music.

           If it could be tonight, she would touch him, kiss him for hours. She sees a warm morning sun, shining amber through a hotel window across his lovely, slim, naked, sleeping body.

           He would make her laugh, blush, find him clever, smart, wise. He sees a half-globe reflection that fills out the bottom of a rich yellow sun, skimming a lake.

           There's a boyfriend on his way tonight that her memory has lost in the moment.

           There's an ex-girlfriend in his mind who'd been too painfully sure: virgins would give it up to him, other girls would do things for him they've sworn they'd never do.

           She knows he's older; but isn't fifteen and nineteen good math between a man and a woman? She will be fifteen.

           He knows she's too young.

           She goes back in time to a moment ago. That smile he gave her when he pulled his arm from her clutch. Those eyes that connected. He knew her. He knows her. Not her name, but her soul. It's a glimmer of possibility. Two soul mates just met. A passion suppressed for millennia finally exploded to freedom.

           He goes ahead of the moment, two hours. The roar of the black wall at the apron of the stage -- the audience. The spot light, a cutting star above that wall. Thundering guitar chords. Dope haze. Strangers who know his lyrics better than he. She'll be out there. Hot, dancing, sweaty.

           She returns to now, the last instant of his look onto her, as his head turns almost too far away. He will never look upon her again.

           He returns to now and realizes she is screaming that she loves him. Other girls, strangers, have yelled it before.

           Her stomach squeezes into the chambers of her heart when his eyes move back upon her.

           He's sure she's about to weep and regrets that it pleases him.

Go to K.L.'s Author's notes
for this piece

© 1996 K.L.Storer, all rights reserved

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