They made music.
Not the kind with their bodies, although Izzie was sure Malik would deserve a Grammy for it. She imagined that he would be well versed in chords of passion and he would play her body like major scales and minor scales until her heartbeat broke the metronome. Unfortunately, Malik only made that kind of music with other people.
Together they made jazz. They poured soul into guitar solos and piano keys while Izzie serenaded the spirits of Nina Simone and Ray Charles with tales of yearning and unrequited love. Each night she wondered how she didn’t choke on irony of it. Or, perhaps, drown in the fiery, sweetness of her lust for the man that oozed sex appeal just by breathing.
Izzie often wondered what would happen if she held his hand, leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. Would he nip at her lips or tease them with his tongue? She wondered if their song would be loud and dark like heavy metal or as smooth and lazy as the jazz they made. Izzie snapped out of her thoughts when the MC introduced their act. She took a deep breath, moved her fingers along her guitar and poured her pent up longing into the microphone. Izzie pushed Malik from her mind and reminded herself to focused on the music they were good at making. Yet, her body never stopped longing for the day they’d make music of another kind.
© Rilzy Adams, 2014