The Singer

Last night the singer called.

She was crying and when I asked her what was wrong she said she got a phone call from her father telling her that her mother had slipped into a coma and could I please come over and stay with her a little while.

I said sure.

I had a hell of a time finding parking in the singers' neighborhood.

It was Friday night.

I parked near the Wharf and had an unfair walk to the singers' apartment.

When I arrived she was wearing a bath towel and her hair was wet and combed back. She immediately thrust a mixed drink into my hand when I walked in the door.

I took a sip and coughed.

"Jesus Christ!" I said.

"What the hell is in here? Moonshine?"

She did not answer and shut the door behind me and put her head to my chest and began to cry. At first her sobs came gently and her shoulders slightly heaved as she tried to hold back, but eventually her sobbing began to intensify until she was actually wailing.

I did my best to console her and after she pulled away I took a big swallow from the drink she gave me. Her wailing was unnerving. It is hard to describe, but it had a primal quality, like a scream you might hear from an animal. I hope this does not come across as insensitive, but it was a sound I do not know if I will ever be able to forget.

Just like the sound of crushing metal and breaking glass.

Just like the sound of a car crash.

She excused herself to her bathroom and told me to make myself comfortable. I took off my shoes and hung my coat on the back of one of her kitchen chairs, then put more ice in my drink and sat on her leather sofa.

She had on cable TV and one of the music channels was having a countdown of some kind, naming a specific release as Rocks greatest recording.

Now, personally, I liked the choice, however, in terms of the greatest Rock recording, I can think of many others.

I was somewhat distracted when the singer joined me on the sofa.

I leaned over, took the remote, and turned off the television.

"Thanks for coming over." She said.

"No problem. I'm sorry to hear about your mother."

We talked for awhile and the singer told me to finish my drink and that she would make me a fresh one. I told her I was fine and she said for me to suit myself and then went into the kitchen and returned with a wooden cutting board that had a full glass balanced on top as well as two whole apples and a big knife.

The glass wobbled and the apples rolled around as she made her way to the table.

I stood to help her.

"Sit down!" She yelled.

The tone in her voice startled me.

She sounded so angry it seemed out of place.

She sat down next to me and raised her glass in the air.

"Here's to us hot heads."

I raised my glass and took a sip.

"C'mon" She said.

"Drink like a man."

I watched her, and did not know quite what to do, I downed the entire drink.

"Good boy."

I sat my glass on the table and leaned back against the sofa. It felt cool and soothing and smelled like the inside of an expensive car.

My head was beginning to swim.

The singer picked up the big knife and chopped both apples in two, sending them scooting across the table. I did not even try to lean forward and help her. She laughed and handed me two halves.

"Have an apple."

I chewed on my halves and listened to her tell me how she was glad her mother was hurt. She was glad she was in the hospital and actually hoped she would die.

I asked her if she was joking.

"Am I joking about what?"

"About wishing your mother was dead."

"I didn't say that."

I checked myself and thought hard before answering.

"Yes you did." I whispered.

"My goodness, you are really drunk. No more for you."

It is true that I was very drunk, but I know what I had heard and I did not know whether to continue to feel sorry for her, and before I could sort out what was going on, she began crying again, this time laying her head in my lap.

I stroked her hair and told her that everything was going to be fine.

Her face was warm and pressed right against my crotch, and I could not help but get aroused. I felt ashamed, but when I tried to move from under her she grabbed onto my legs and kept crying.

My head was throbbing and her breath was warm and before I could protest the singer unzipped my pants and took me inside her mouth.

Her motion re-sparked the awareness that is possible for me to temporarily leave my mundane shell.

For several moments I soared among the stars.

After I climaxed she raised her face and began kissing me hard.

I tried to speak, but she kissed me harder.

She then began caressing me with one hand as she held the big knife by the blade in her other hand, pressing its handle against my arm.

After I was hard again, she took me by the hand, and when we got into the bedroom, she let the knife and her bathrobe fall to the floor.

She had a body like a painting.

She looked beautiful.

I undressed and she lay down on the floor next to the butcher knife, spreading her knees apart. She began to masturbate, instructing me to get a condom from the nightstand drawer under the clock.

I rolled it on and knelt next to her.

"Don't just watch! Fuck me! Goddamn it! Fuck me!"

I did what I was told. And as I was thinking about allowing myself to climax she pushed me off her and got on top, thrusting herself up and down furiously.

I climaxed and she kept thrusting.

After I went limp, she stopped and I pulled out.

I removed my condom, and she sat on top of me laughing.