She played beautifully, and I could only watch and listen.
I met her at college.
She was a year ahead.
She flirted with me, which was fun.
Despite my age, I was inexperienced.
She soon fixed that.
We were way too intense, but at that age, intense is fun, if a little disturbing.
You may say I was thinking with my dick, and you would probably be right, but no one was being harmed.
My soul kept telling me that something was not quite right — then I would be with her again, and I would immerse myself in her and drown out my soul.
She joined the small musical group organised by our university, and they performed on most Sundays. Tiny little halls and churches scattered over the metro area. I tagged along, sat in the audience and revelled in her talent.
When the recital was over, I would tell her how good she was. She’d smile and tell me all the bits that went wrong (me, being illiterate in all things musical) and I would say that I didn’t notice.
We’d find a cafe, eat cake and drink coffee.
As the sun was going down, I’d drive her home and suggest that we make some music of our own. She never said no, and I would love her until I couldn’t.
My soul became more insistent.
My dad knew what was happening — he’d been there too. Talented, beautiful women can make you forget who you are — in the most pleasant of ways.
“So how did you handle it, dad?”
I did too.
I look back at that time as though it happened to someone else.
My soul was right, and if I hadn’t listened, I would have missed the love of my life.
I’m lucky because I have lived long enough to know that I’ve become the person I am because of the people I have known.
The lady with the long legs and the violin was someone I knew well.