Corner booth Your eyes just pools of black in the dim red light. Everything else seems so far away. Candles flickering like distant stars on each table. On Tuesdays the band never stops, just melts from one song to the next. We smoked two bowls on the streets of Portland before we came and we’re melting, too, our cells leeching into the leather booth.
You’re distracted clapping for a drum solo when my fingers flow over your knee. I compose music on the inside of your thighs, and your pulse keeps pace with the bass. I’m glad I cajoled you into wearing a dress.
I can’t tell where my skin ends and the air begins but I can feel the boundary between our bodies. I break it during a sax solo. They don’t let people smoke in here anymore but the whole room feels hazy. You a ball of heat beside me, your huff of breath lost in the horns I make sure you and the trumpet crescendo at the same time.
You are syncopation, emphasis in unexpected places, I want to study your chord progression. You’re Billie Holiday, backphrasing, but you catch up for the chorus. Sometimes I feel like we’re bebop with our quick complication but here we’re the blues, soulful and something like gentle.