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Dennis had cracked the spine of the address book so that it immediately opened to the right page. There it was, just where he'd scribbled it: the number he'd been calling and calling, incessantly, over the last few days. An hour or two here or there, idling away, and then it was back to the phone--again. So many times now. He wondered if it was possible to wear out the rotary dial, like a favourite record whose grooves soften under the weight of repetition. Something one loved so desperately, that even that force could ruin it. He also wondered if, soon, he'd know the number in his address book without looking--as confidently as a beloved song etches its words in one's heart.
The whole mess Dennis was mired in now had started with a song. Back before he'd kissed that pair of lips, he watched them reshape his own words. It was like he'd made some brown and humble earthen thing on a potter's wheel, and this upstart had gilded it for him, seemingly asking nothing in return. Perhaps the lad had gotten more than he'd bargained for, then.
Dennis had hoped to see his old bandmates treading water, doing something passable to stay busy, and yet he could sense that they had found something special, something potent. Someone who made his own words--his own confessions and yearnings and experiences--shimmer and glow with renewed energy and life. To decide what to say, and write it and codify it in song, that was a passionate and personal thing. The soul, he thought, shifts and changes in the wind, like some flower that chases the Sun. The quest of the artist, then, was to dry and flatten flowers between the pages of books. Trap it, kill it, freeze it in place. His beloved worked black magic, then, to make a dead thing dance and spin and look back at him again. Shocking. Enthralling. How could he help but fall in love?
Inevitability--the thought filled Dennis with dread, when his mind turned to it. The feeling clouded the corners of his eyes with a pall of gloom. Within him, an impish voice chanted a syllogism, as impenetrable as it was cruel: "You can't help loving him. So if he doesn't love you, the same way...you'll be miserable, won't you?" The conclusion was shatterproof, and doom, indeed, almost certain. It crept closer to true with every bounced phone call.
But--aha!--a click on the other end of the line. True and real. Dennis's heart stuttered, and blood left his cheeks. Clutching the tiny crumb of bread he'd been thrown, Dennis swallowed a nervous croak, and began speaking into the silence. "Hello! Listen, it's Dennis, and I--"
The click again. Resounding in the quiet. Dennis's eyes were awash in a yellow fog, and his chest slumped and sank as though his heart were carved out of it. A simple shuffle and click was all it took to extinguish all his humming enthusiasm to see Midge again someday. As soon as he'd heard the name "Dennis," he was finished--what clearer sign could he have asked for? Sometimes, the coldness of truth was biting and sudden like that. Any gleam of hope he'd had was finished, as surely as an emerald dragonfly, majestic and queenly under the sunlight, became shattered nothing the second it met a windscreen.
Dennis had spent so much time hunched over the phone, bristling with excitement. But now he leaned back in his chair, instead, exhausted and overwhelmed. He felt the stress throughout his upper back, gnarled like the roots of some ancient yew that twisted around a cathedral and its graveyards. Oh, to release something, anything, in response.
Tears came naturally now, gliding over the phase of welling up, as though they had always been there, waiting for their moment. They rode his face in obvious troughs, over and around his harsh cheeks. He sniveled, once, bravely, and with a sense of preserved dignity. It was one part of this he perhaps could control. Dennis inhaled, slowly and deeply, but failed to exhale with the same poise. Instead, he felt it catch in his throat, and it swiftly became a bona fide sob. What, indeed, was the point of struggling with the urge? He gifted himself a few good ones--solid and firm, honest weeping. But then he shook his head, as though that would somehow shake loose all the congestion inside of it. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, like one hastily pushes clutter into drawers and behind closets to prepare for surprise company.
Surely, Dennis figured, the best way to ease his mind was to change positions and change scenery. Still sniffling, he shuffled away from his office, away from that phone on the desk, that had served as such a solemn messenger. Conscious of the tension in his back, he flopped himself down on the couch in his studio's anteroom, easing his shoulder blades into the cushions.
Comfortable as he was, physically, his mind quickly dredged up the memory of the ignominious association of this piece of furniture. Maybe he'd subconsciously been attracted to this spot? As much as he tried to relax, the little impressions of everything to do with Midge spewed forth, like maggots that writhed through a rotting piece of meat, defiling his brain and his better nature. Midge's hand, sliding up under his shirt, so cold against his ribs. His kisses--from all the way down there!--confident and bold, with a generous helping of tongue. The way his cock felt in his hand, seemingly so eager for the attention. And Midge singing "Hiroshima Mon Amour"--"a million memories in the trees...how can I ever let you go?"
This was too much--the intruding thoughts overpowered him. As they began their trickle down his consciousness, he had felt that initial quiver towards an erection. Now that they'd spun out of control, he had plenty to work with. Dennis made a choice to succumb to the temptation of further emotional and physical release.
Grasping the base of his cock with one hand, he covered his eyes with his free arm, in order to open the window of his imagination. He started working himself along, slowly to begin. Midge's lovely eyes, bluish but darkly so, wet and complex--though so often shyly averted from his own. Imagine how he'd finally met that gaze, while--no, stop, too much. Dennis withdrew his hand, momentarily. Better to take his time, and do this right.
He resumed, determined to stay the course. He remembered kissing, for the first time, soft and reserved. Sneaking a finger, slyly, between an old-fashioned strip of braces, and a modest-looking shirt. Smelling sweat and a hint of anxious confusion.
Dennis allowed himself a firmer grip now, considering his body sufficiently excited. He thought about those hands, snaking over his skin, brushing against the hair on his chest. The tremor he'd felt, having gone for the ear and achieved, it seemed, a genuine surprise. And of course, he couldn't forget that modest, but fetching member. It was so finely crafted--symmetrical, and firm to his steady touch.
Almost home. Dennis couldn't help but recall asking Midge to call him "Dennis." He hadn't refused...but he hadn't said it, either. And now he never would. Oh, if only he'd gotten him to moan it, instead. Just imagine Midge, pushed to the limits of his own pleasure, gritting his teeth, and whispering, "Dennis…"
And there it was, clearing a pathway in his muddled head, torching the weedy grasses of regret and indecision with its pure, white light. A clean-burning flame. But one that died a quick death, simmering into nothing a second later, a spark that sputtered away.
Dennis lifted his arm from his face. It was a bit numb, as well as sticky from the salt in his tears. Those were an easier mess to handle, in comparison to this...but it had been worth it. Now, it was easy to feel a deep disgust at being used and betrayed--without complications. The liberating clarity let him discard that sense of desire...hopefully, once and for all.