The Musicians

I remember the first kiss. It was after the first dinner, in your tiny little room with the glass doors, on your tiny twin mattress, never quite big enough for the two of us; we had to become one to fit. I remember laying in your arms, nuzzling your neck, then lips brushed, lips locked, tongues came out to play. I blushed and pulled my head down. I couldn't look at you. I, who'd prided myself in my sexual evolution-revolution-liberation, was a virgin again. Bashful, unsure of myself, unsure of these tingling surges now shooting through my entire being. "Why didn't you kiss me in the hammock?" I can't quite remember your response, but it didn't matter. You were kissing me now. I remember the smell of that house, the smell of that tiny room. That first night you made me eggplant "parmesan" (it was vegan like you, savory and slightly sweet) and that room held the smell of it forever. It smelled like our bodies, too; quivering with need, pouncing with hunger. I ached for you. That tiny room, that barely could contain our bodies and our instruments, swelled with love and lust and newness and familiarity and ecstasy. Somehow your slender body, those strong and lanky skinny limbs enveloped my voluptuousness. I looked into those ice blue eyes, deep and wide with knowing and curiosity. You looked at me the way you do when we make music. We made love through music, but now we made music with our bodies, our thrusts and sighs.