I stopped at the light. My head resting back on the
seat, fine hairs lifting and separating, landing upon my gin soaked lips,
dancing across my collarbone and lapping at the tip of my nose. A long day at
its end, dinner consumed, out, and with the lube of not one but two martinis.
The long light giving me pause to try and tuck the wildly flipping stands of
white blonde behind my ear and plunge my pudgy paw into the center console in
an effort to retrieve my increasingly disoriented radio remote. Lady Gaga,
flip, some Irish sounding “rock” band, flip, the shallow and tinny sound of
studio produced music taking less than a few seconds to turn me off and inspire
my wandering thumb to scroll up and down.
“Layla, you got me on my knees” the soulful plucking
of guitar strings in place of electric screeching and intensity, the groan of
the taught wire palpable as the thick-skinned fingers pressed them hard against
the vibrating frame of the curvy instrument. “Begging darling please, Layla” and
older, calmer, more longing Eric Clapton’s voice a mix of want, remembrance and
wisdom as his long ago ache spilled out into the warm caverns of my 2007 red
Camry…before I knew it I’d slipped my fingers around the tight little top button
of my uniform shirt and in one fail swoop, set a tiny bit of my work day flesh
free. Clapton’s voice groaned with the kind of desire I am especially accustom
to, that knowing what you want but not being allowed to have it thing. Hair
being restrained, the grumble of a long and trying work day, in the form of a
stiff spine, slightly softened by icy cold chunks of shaken gin served in a
high and tight triangle glass, sitting across from the face of a man that
adores me and the skin tingling purr of relatable music wistfully spinning about
me on my ride home.
Classic
Sexy….
A very deep growl simmered inside me. Started right
around my weary ankles and slowly began to creep up the fleshy bits on the back
of my thighs. I felt the day being lifted from my skin with each rumble much in
the same way I used to lift the comic images from the Sunday comics with Silly
Putty. Everything still there and visible, just flipped in front of me rather
than sitting weighty on my chest. That growl slipped from between my lips in a
way that might have embarrassed me…if I hadn’t been distracted by, “scrape,
pop, hum” the sound of little rubber wheels skipping across the sidewalk.
That particular sound, the dragging of firm rubber
across concrete a sound so familiar to me it could be my middle name. The
secret language of skaters, be they roller or board. I spent nearly every
summer with my feet laced onto wheels, my increasingly rounding body sailing
down every hill I could find…often with my heart resting at the very top of my
throat and beating so loudly, and before we were all plugged into nerve
rattling music, it became my soundtrack. Scraping, the sound of warm air whizzing
past my ears and pulling my skin and hairline tight, the thump-thump-thump of a
heart that didn’t know, or care, how or when we were going to stop. The way
those extra hours of sun were spent until I could slip my chunky frame into the
barely lit and sloshy cool pool…the rolling, scrapping and sloshing my best
friends way back then, ones I miss now when I hear them call….
“Scrape, pop, hum” like a crooked finger rested upon
my jaw pulling my head to the left. I felt my heart start beating more ardently;
very much in the same way I felt when I would fly down a hill, wheels ablaze
beneath me, tiny pebbles and bits of tossed aside life being rolled over as I
heard my mother’s voice calling me to dinner. I knew it was time to go, end the
freedom and exhilaration, hard rubber wheels that just seconds before brought be
absolute liberation now ushering me back to the house I ached to be let free
from. I saw the newish sneakers, the crushed black material, thick laces and
well-worn soles, one foot rested firmly on the thin slab of a board and the other
dragging and pushing the frame of an aching to sail soul down the broken
buckling sidewalk. I was at first mesmerized by the calling of, well of that
middle name thing but I was quickly jarred back into my reality when I saw that
the “Young man” fleeing and exercising his summer was my age, older than my age
actually, probably had ten years on me and here he was, jeans, skater sneaks,
sailing, rolling over broken bits and letting his heart thump away a soundtrack
of long ago.
Might have been the gin, might have been that damn
soundtrack but I found myself speeding ahead, pulling along the right side of
the road, hitting that hazard button jobbie on my dash and climbing out of my
car. Resting my thick rear end against one of those weathered fences watching the
salt and pepper hair float in the wind as that grown ass man let his inner him
coast. His thin frame evidence of his good behavior, the speed with which his
sneaker clad foot raked and pulled at the concrete evidence of his rebellion and
ache, “got me on my knees Layla” still pumping through my speakers adding to
the “pop, scrape” and “hum” the beauty of the realness so powerful it nearly
brought a tear to my weary and not-as-cynical-as-I’d-like-to-think eye. Ended
up crossing four lanes of pre-freeway traffic just to sit closer and smell the
sensual aromatic of clean but freshly sweating skin, feel the pulse of not
giving a fuck, for a second, and be reminded that no matter how old we are we still
ache for, and crave that heart thumping.
His name and scent now part of my heart pounding. My
fearless stopping of his ride to tell him how much watching, feeling, hearing, smelling
and comprehending his feelings meant to me, adding to his heart-pounding and making
us both bits of left behind road to smile about as we rode over them on our way
back to the voices that called us for dinner.
Wheels not so much needing of
reinventing, just maybe craving some fresh air and heart pounding.
