Chapter Ten: All the Way Down

Will

I dream about her.

That flimsy black t-shirt, up and over her head and discarded hastily, her ivory skin so smooth and unblemished and my fingers are trailing everywhere, touching the subtle curve of her waist and the soft flesh on her hips and the mounds of her breasts. She’s brought me to her bedroom and we’re down on the futon and she’s on top of me, straddling my hips, her hands, warmwarmwarm, pressing down on my chest so I can’t move and her lips are touching the erratic pulse on my neck, nipping at it very hesitantly. The cool air has a tickling sensation on my groins, feathery light, almost tender, and there’s nothing but her long, high scream, thrusting screaming don’t think no words grabbing pulling sighing then nothing

When I wake up my pants are uncomfortably tight and my entire body is covered in a cold sweat. I lay there for a moment, letting myself calm down, forcing my heartbeat to slow, until I can’t take it anymore so I slip my hand underneath the sheets to finish what dream-Ilene started. Once I’m done I’m sure to clean up carefully, using towels that are conveniently placed next to the bed (does this happen often?), and disposing of them in the clothes bin near the door. I’m smoothing down the creases in my pants when there’s a knock on the door, and I say, "Come in." With a barely audible click the door opens and Ilene’s butler walks in with my clothes in his arms. "Oh, baby!" I say in joy, shuffling over to where he stands. "You washed them? Thanks, man—I haven’t been to the drycleaners in weeks."

The man lets out a forced smile, as if dealing with an annoying child. "You don’t even know how many washes it took to get them smelling at least bearable," he tells me, and I’m grateful for his humor, even if it’s strained. I take them from his hands and bring it up to my face and inhale—lavender, the fragrance that surrounds Ilene like some kind of holy aura. I smile at him and pat his shoulder affectionately. "Thanks again," I tell him.

He gives me a tiny bow. "Miss Sasson says that when you’re ready she will drive you back to your apartment. She is writing now but I’m sure she’d be willing to stop to oblige to your needs." He gives me another bow, then leaves the room, closing the door behind him with a silent click. I stand for a moment, then strip and pull my clothes on. There’s something comforting about putting on your own dirty, wrinkled clothes in a foreign house.

That’s when I hear it—the sound of a soft voice, singing out. It’s Ilene’s—I could recognize that sweet sound anywhere. My feet move out of the door and down the hallway to my right, down so far I fear I’m going to step off the edge of the earth, and then I look to my left and see an open door, with Ilene leaning over a desk, her right hand silently conducting along with the music she is writing, her voice singing with complex rhythms. I lean on the doorhinge, watching her, because it is so unlike this woman to be so immersed in what she is doing, so completely absorbed and unaware of her surroundings. I can see it in her, the creative spirit, the music that seems to pour almost eerily out of her.

It’s when she picks up her violin that I truly can see this. She treats it with such loving care, like it is alive and a living being, and when she brings it up to rest on her shoulder and as she picks up he bow and readies to play…

I truly and honestly fall in love with her.

This is a side of Ilene Mai Sasson that no one has ever seen before. No one has seen her at work, no one has seen the silent woman with the intent black eyes, the fingers that caress the fingerboard of her violin like she is touching the neck of her lover. I feel, for a moment, as if I am trespassing upon something sacred. I stand still until she lowers her violin again, pauses for a second, then leans down to scribble something on the sheet of music in front of her. Then she glances up and sees me.

"You know, most people would knock," she says sardonically, giving her attention back to what she is writing. "Are you ready to go?"

"Play something else," I ask her. "Anything."

She straightens her back, gives me a long, sharp look, sets her violin down calmly, comes around the desk and stands before me. "About your painting," she says. "I’ll still help you with it. I still think you’re a freak and a stalker but you’re…I mean to say, I can understand where you’re coming from. I’d want to be around my muse too, if I were having trouble with something I was working on."

I’m so disconcerted by her closeness that I can barely utter a, "sweet." All I can think of is my dream, and the night before, my hand on her breast, eliciting that beautiful little moan from her lips. It’s like she notices this because she looks awkward for a minute and steps back a little. "No—" I manage before I reach up and grab her to me. She squeaks in her surprise and struggles minutely, but I hold her tightly to me until her thrashing ceases and she simply stands with her, her arms lip by her side. "I’m in love with you," I say before I can stop myself. "That’s the reason behind the painting. The reason I kissed you that night. The reason I showed up at your door last night. The reason I kissed you again. The reason I’m standing here now, holding you." I take some breaths, and she still is silent, so I continue. "Ilene, the moment I saw you play your violin at that damn concert I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I can’t sleep, I barely eat but now I don’t eat at all, my paintings and photos all remind me of you, and I can’t stop having these freaky wet dreams about you."

She pulls away, narrows her eyes at me. "I was actually touched for a minute, but you ruined it when you mentioned the wet dreams." She pushes me away, crosses her arms and sighs. "Look, Will…people like you and people like me don’t love each other. You’re a shitty artist who lives in the city and gets drunk and has awful hair. I’m a world famous violinist whose songs are played on every radio and movie and commercial."

"Oh, you know that’s a bunch of bullshit," I tell her. "This isn’t Romeo and Juliet, Ilene. We aren’t separated by some wall or some stupid parents. We’re free as fucking birds. We’re adults and we can do as we damn well please."

"And I’ve chosen all these years never to love another person besides Sayuri, my violin, and myself. What makes you think you have a chance to just push all of that away?" she snaps. "Look…just—let’s just go, all right? Get this over with. I’ll help you with your painting. I’ll sit and let you paint my damn face. And if you try anything else I’ll get a fucking restraining order."

This is what I get for being spontaneous.

"Ilene…" I start, but she brushes past me.

Fuckfuckfuck. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that. I let myself wallow in my sorrow for a minute, banging my head on doorframe before I turn and follow Ilene with a throbbing forehead.

Agh! Writers block! And I was so far. D: So I noticed that I hadn’t updated since…February. So I decided to try and work on this. And I got a lot out, actually.