Our breaths grew short and our bodies restless, and it was Millie who pulled away first, clearly not quite ready to extend this night of firsts. I closed my eyes and willed my heart to still as she stroked my head, her fingers slipping through my hair and easing the dull ache still lurking behind my eyes.
“David?” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Sing me a song.”
“What kind of song, baby?”
“A love song.”
“Millie, Millie, You’re so silly. I’m so glad your name’s not Willy,” I sang in my best country twang.
“Willy?”
“Let me rephrase.” I cleared my throat and began again. “Millie, Millie, you’re so silly, I’m sure glad you don’t have a willy.”
“That’s not a love song,” she giggled.
“Okay. How about this? I love your legs. I love your chest, but this spot here, I love the best.” I tickled her smooth stomach and she squirmed against me.
“Keep singing!” she demanded, swatting my hand away.
“I love your chin and your funny grin, I love your hair and that spot there.” I tickled her beneath her right rib and she grabbed my fingers, laughing.
“I love it! Second verse, please.”
“I love the way you shake your booty, I love the way you smell so fruity! I love the way you call me David, and . . . . la la la nothing rhymes with David.”
“That was beautiful,” she giggled. “What’s it called?”
“It’s called ‘Nothing Rhymes with David.’”
“Nothing rhymes with David?” Her voice was disbelieving, and she was quiet for several seconds, as if trying to find a word that rhymed to prove me wrong. Then she stroked the side of my face, her fingers tracing my jawline, and when she spoke again her voice was as earnest as her touch.
“It makes me feel close to you, listening to you.”
“Is that why you always want me to sing? I thought it was my honeyed tones.” I joked, but my throat was suddenly tight, too tight to sing.
“It’s more than that. You can’t see a song. You feel a song, you hear a song, you move to it. Just like I can’t see you, but I feel you, and I move toward you. When you’re with me, I feel like I glimpse a David nobody else knows is there. It’s the Song of David, and nobody else can hear it but me.”
My heart shuddered and then grew twice its size, a Hulk-like shredding and popping sensation filling my chest, and I wrapped her in my arms and buried my face in her neck.
“Nah. That’s not me. That’s the ode, Millie. I feel it too, every single time you’re close to me.”
“The ode, huh? That’s what you call it?”
“That’s what I call it.”
“I think I’ll stick with the Song of David. It’s my favorite,” she said, speaking the words against my cheek.
“If I sing, you have to dance,” I whispered, and my mouth found hers, and the music between us became an urgent hum, a rhythmic pulse, and we danced around the fires between us until sleep slowed our steps and muted our song and softly pulled us under.
(End of cassette)
Moses
MILLIE STOOD AND with no warning, lifted the tape recorder above her head and threw it to the ground as if she couldn’t bear to hear another word. The back of the tape recorder sprang off when it hit the ground, and the fat D batteries rolled out like wounded soldiers, their tank disabled, their weapons depleted.
Georgia and I stood watching, unable to form a coherent response. Millie was shaking with fury, and her eyes were bright with tears.
“I don’t know what to think, anymore. I don’t know what to do! We’re sitting here listening to him tell us a story that I wholeheartedly believed two weeks ago. But he’s gone. I’m actually . . . embarrassed. I’ve called you, interrupted your lives, and made a big deal about the fact that he’s gone. But he obviously chose to leave!” Millie took several ragged breaths, but then her chin hit her chest, and the rage seemed to leave her as quickly as it had come.
“The worst part is . . . I actually hope it’s just that he doesn’t know how to tell me he changed his mind. I actually hope he woke up and realized he wasn’t in love with me after all. I hope that’s it. Because I can’t think of an alternative that isn’t a hundred times worse. And I’d rather lose him than lose him.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
My phone pealed out mercifully, and Georgia knelt to put the batteries back in the tape recorder as I excused myself to take the call.
“Mikey,” I greeted, slipping out the front door.
“Moses,” he said in reply. “I’ve got news.”
My heart did a belly flop.
“Tag is fighting in Vegas tomorrow. At the MGM. Cory caught the weigh-in on ESPN this morning. Apparently he’s a last minute substitution. It’s a big fight, Moses. A huge fight. It’s the Terry Shaw versus Jordan Jones match-up. But now it’s Terry Shaw versus Tag Taggert.”
My mouth fell open, and I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it, as if Mikey wasn’t really Mikey and my phone wasn’t really a phone.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” I hissed, and pressed the phone against my ear once more.
“That’s what I said. We’re all reeling. We don’t know what to think, man. He’s fighting, and none of us knew. We’re his team. What the hell is he doing, Moses?”
“I have no idea, Mikey,” I breathed. I felt lightheaded with relief that we’d found him, and sick with dread about what was coming next.