Glittering Green, Glowing Gold

They stood, watching the cloudy afternoon, hearing the traffic. "Gig went alright last night," Parker said, and he sighed. Ken betrayed no reaction, yet Parker continued. "Walkin' home...some girl bumped into me. Pretty little thing..." Parker trailed off, for a moment lost in green and gold.

"Yeah?" Ken inquired, nonchalantly. "You hit that?" He took another drag, the smoke drifting lazily from his mouth. "Nah, guess you didn't, y'had a rough night and all." This last bit was quickly mumbled, more to himself than to Parker.

"Nah," Parker said darkly, "but somebody tried to."

There was a long silence in which the two men stood and smoked. "Yeah?" Ken said finally.

Parker could tell Ken didn't know what he meant. "Yeah," Parker said. "Tried to rape her."

Ken's cigarette froze, an inch from his lips. Eyebrows perked, barely coming above his aviators. "No shit," he said slowly, breathily. "You see it?"

"Yeah," Parker answered, bitterly. "Fought him off. Stabbed him in the arm, broke his head on the wall. Big fuckin' dude."

"Fuckin' kiddin' me," Ken exclaimed. "You saved this bitch?"

"Yeah," Parker replied, unhappily. "Asshole cop wouldn't tell me where they were taking her... she could be dead, all I know. He fucked her up pretty good. Lotta blood in her hair." There was another pause; one drag for each man. "And the fucker broke my guitar."

"Shiiiiit," Ken said, trailing off. "Broke it bad?"

"Shattered it," Parker spat. "Shoved me against a wall, it was slung over my back. Neck snapped, body splintered. I heard each string snap." He hung his head.

"Man," Ken said. "Fuckin' sucks." He took another drag while Parker was silent. "Still," he said, "makes you kind of a hero, right?"

Parker snorted. "Yeah," he said, a bitter laugh, "s'what I get, right?"

A voice from inside. In unison the men flicked their spent cigarettes away. They hit the ground, bursting gold like a Navy Pier sky. "Still on for ball after work?" Ken asked as they parted ways.

"Yeah," Parker called. "Thanks for the smoke." Then after a moment, "Your lighter still sucks!"

"Fuck the Cubs!" Ken yelled. Parker laughed.

A swish, a ping, a thump, a grunt, rustling, another swish, three thumps, sliding across asphalt, a loud thud, a metallic, swishing ring.

Parker bent over, his hands on his knees. His cut arms and strong chest glistened with sweat; sweat dripped off his face. Ken paced next to him, hands on his hips. "Damn," Ken said, panting.

Parker chuckled, stood up, stretched his long, nude torso. "Kickin' your ass always makes me feel better."

Ken was silent, save for his panting. "Aight," he said. "But next time you're mine."

"You said that last time," Parker said quietly.

"Whatever, man," Ken said, "my turf next time. Hate comin' all the way up to the north side."

"We'd both rather play in Lincoln Park than in that piece of shit Carver," Parker rebutted.

"Sure," Ken said, approaching Parker and clasping his hand in his. "But in Carver Park, your ass is mine."

"See you Monday, Ken," Parker said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Yeah, see ya," Ken said, walking away, his basketball under his arm.

Parker pulled his shirt back on, not bothering to do the buttons. The soft fabric hugged his abs as a breeze blew. Parker felt better, the memory of the previous night still as sharp but present less often. He walked home, east to Sheffield, north to Wellington, following the Brown Line. The neighborhood was beginning to bloom in the early spring. The dying golden sunlight illuminated the people, walking, dining outside, lounging.

He walked into his apartment, the screen door banging to. He kicked off his shoes, padded quietly to the bathroom, taking off his clothes. He started the shower, left it cool, stepped in, let the stream bounce off his muscular body, run in rivulets down his tanned skin, over his sculpted abs. Shampoo in the hair. Soap all over his body, sliding, smooth, slick. Thoughts a jumble. His hand slid down over his abs to his waist, then below. As he washed himself, his thoughts were broken by golden hair, green eyes. His hand lingered, becoming more rhythmic in its motions. Suddenly he remembered what she'd been wearing: a yellow sundress, light and airy. Brown leather sandals. Why did he remember that? Her face was thin, smooth, pale. Her eyes were bright, dazzling green. Her hair was brilliant gold.

Then he felt emptiness as he remembered the lonely guitar stand in his living room. He scowled, moved his hand, quickly rinsed off. He toweled himself dry, pulled on clothes, a white-and-blue striped button-down, left his apartment, went to the train stop. Running from his thoughts.

This is a CTA Brown Line Train to the Loop. Doors open on the right at Lake and State.

10 minutes' walk east on Lake. 6:52, the Daily Grind. "Hey listen, Linda," Parker said, "I can't play tonight, I... there was an accident last night, my guitar's totally fucked."

"Aw, sugar," Linda said, mixing a double-shot soy latte, "I'm sorry to hear that. Really, I am. But I can't pay you for your troubles unless you can play." Parker sighed. "I'm sorry, sugar," Linda said again. "You get yourself a new guitar and you'll have your gig back that very night, I promise."

"Okay," Parker whispered. "Thanks, Linda.

"'Course, sug," Linda said sweetly. "Anything for the road?"

Parker paused a beat. "Got a smoke?" She shook her head. "That's alright," he said. He turned to leave.

There. By the door. Jeans and a Roosevelt College hoodie tonight. A bright purple bruise highlighted her forehead above her right eye, but there she was, golden hair and emerald eyes and all. She bore a quiet smile. Expectant.

Parker rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself. He walked toward the door, hands in pockets. Her smile followed him, but he kept his eyes downcast. Then, as he reached the door, he looked at her. Her smile, highlighting her thin, pale face, never wavered. He looked into her dazzling green eyes. He held her gaze for a second, two, five. Then he closed his eyes, uttering one of his small, almost inaudible laughs, and walked out the door.

The smile slid almost immediately off the girl's face. A moment of indecision, then she got quickly to her feet and followed him out the door.

He had not gone far; he'd half expected her to follow. "Hey," she called, the same mezzo-soprano voice who had uttered a hasty apology the previous night. "You're not playing tonight?"

Parker laughed again, louder this time, somewhat derisively. Her smile merely teased the corners of her mouth. He sighed. "Guess you wouldn't know," he said. Her head cocked two degrees to the right, questioning. He smiled, took a deep breath. "My guitar got destroyed," he said. He then turned to look at her. "Last night. In the alley."

A look of horror dawned on the girl's face. "Oh, God," she whispered, "I'm so sorry, I-"

"Nobody's fault but mine," Parker said softly, then turned to walk again. Tentatively, she followed.

"Still," she said, falling into stride with him, "that's not a little thing. God. I'm just glad you're alright."

Parker froze in his tracks, wheeled around to face the girl. "I'm alright?" he echoed, his voice rising. "You're the one who was closer to not being alright."

"But I am," she said softly, and the rising torrent in Parker's voice was staunched. "A little bruised," she said, raising her arms in front of her; for the first time Parker noticed that her forearms were also lined with long, thin bruises, tattoos of her attacker's fingers. "But okay. Thanks to you." She lowered her arms, looked up at him, resumed her small smile.

Parker was silent. He sighed again. "Well," he said, "I can honestly say I'm glad for that." He shifted, putting his hands back in his pockets. "I, uh...wanted to go to the hospital last night, make sure you were okay. That holstein of a cop wouldn't tell me where they were taking you."

"St. James," she said. "That's okay, I wasn't there long. I guess there was a lot of blood, but I didn't hit my head that hard. Mostly my face." She gestured to the contusion that framed her eye. She smiled. "They let me go this morning." Her expression darkened. "The other guy...he's still unconscious. Said he might be in a coma for a while."

"Deserves it," Parker said, then caught himself and said no more. There was a pregnant pause between the two. Parker caught those glimmering eyes for a moment more. Her eyes were wide, attending. "So," he said finally, looking away. "So I don't have to repeat myself tonight, I figure I should walk you home."

She hesitated, her smile fading. "Sure it's not too far out of the way?" she asked. "I live just off of Harrison, in Little Italy."

"Yeah, that's no problem," Parker said, "just a few Blue Line stops out of the Loop, right?" He set off walking. Almost surprised by the immediacy of his departure, she scrambled to catch up. "We can get on at Clark and Lake."

"That's right," she said quietly.

There was little more exchange between the two as they walked five blocks west to the subway stop at Clark and Lake. The eastbound Blue Line train creaked and clattered down the Forest Park branch, the cars full but not suffocating. They sat together in mostly silence, stealing furtive glances at one another.

Parker leaned back in his seat and watched out the window, even though there was nothing to see but subterranean walls. The girl looked at him but tried not to stare. His deep brown hair was long enough to cast a curtain of bangs in his deep brown eyes. He was tall and thin, his soft blue button-down shirt hugging his muscular arms, revealing teasing glances of his cut chest.

Parker allowed himself a small smile. He could see her reflected in the window and watched her look at him. She was beautiful, slender but not wanting for curves. She kept on her hooded sweatshirt, the red standard of Roosevelt College falling in a graceful double arc across her breasts. The corners of her thin, pink lips were teased upward by that tiny smile she wore. And, of course, her hair fell just past her shoulders and shimmered golden blonde even in the low, artificial subway light, and her eyes glittered emerald green as she gazed at him.

He looked toward her out of the corner of his eye, and she immediately cast her eyes down. He looked down too, smiling. Gotchya. "So," he began, "what's your name?"

"Diana," she almost whispered. "Diana Burton."

"Diana," Parker imitated in almost as low a voice. He mouthed the name silently, letting the three syllables weigh on his tongue. "It's a beautiful name."

"Thank you," Diana replied, almost inaudible.

Parker looked up at her, not raising his head. "Diana," he said again, "the Roman goddess of the moon... and the hunt."

Diana smiled, subdued. "That's right," she said.

"Hm," Parker hummed, smiling and looking away. After a moment, he added, "Didn't Diana swear off men for all eternity?"

This made Diana laugh. "Yes," she said, casting her eyes back down, "I suppose she did." There was a pause, then she said, "I guess I'm not much like my namesake at all." She looked up at him.

Parker looked back. Their eyes met, for more than a brief instant this time. If it had not been for a particularly loud squeal of the brakes on the rail at that moment, he may have shivered. He smiled, looked away. They were again silent.

The doors opened on the left at Racine. They walked south five blocks, then turned and walked west another block and a half. There were food carts lining the street doing a roaring trade, but the sun was beginning to set and many of the shops were closing up. Parker followed Diana at a step and a half, strolling with his hands in his pockets. Still very little conversation passed between them.

Soon Diana turned left and keyed open a gate. "I live on the first floor," Diana said, gesturing toward a door to her right and adding, "right here."

"Okay then," Parker said, "good." There was another silence as they stood two paces apart, looking at each other, then the ground, then the sky, then each other again. "So, um..." Parker began hesitantly.

"Come in for a second," Diana said suddenly, as if coming out of a reverie. She turned and put her key in the lock, turned it.

"O-okay," Parker stammered, surprised. Slowly, tentatively, he stepped to follow her.

She looked back at him and laughed gently. "I want to show you something," she said, opening the door and stepping in. Parker followed, hesitantly.

Diana closed the door behind Parker, then turned and walked down a short corridor. "Have a seat," she called to him, "I'll be just a minute."

"Alright..." Parker muttered, more to himself than to her. He looked around. He stood in her kitchen, black and white tile with old wooden cupboards. He sat at her kitchen table on a black painted wooden chair. There was a rustling from down the hall, then a soft padding as Diana returned. She was now barefoot and had removed her sweatshirt, revealing a pink tank top. Her curves were now even more pronounced, her flat belly forming a deeply sloping line with her round breasts. Parker was distracted from his, however, by what she held in her hands. Quite distracted. In fact, his jaw hung slack in disbelief, and his eyes were wide.

Giggling at his reaction, Diana pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Parker slid his chair so that the table was no longer between them. "That's-" he began.

"1987 Ovation," she said, handing him the guitar.

Parker took it, gingerly, as if it were made of glass. The body was thin and round, several small tone holes dotting its face in a symmetrical pattern. It had a blue-green glaze, the color of the waves that lapped Lake Michigan's shores. He ran his fingertips along the body, smoothly, gently. They left faint trails in the dust. He turned his head to better regard the neck. It was thin, graceful, swooping out beautifully to an ornate top piece. "Is that...?" he asked, looking closely at the fingerboard glistening jet black beneath the strings.

"Ebony," Diana said, smiling at Parker's wonder.

"Wow," Parker whispered, running his fingers over all parts of the guitar.

"I'm glad you like it," Diana said. "It was my father's."

"Your father's?" Parker asked, looking up at her. "Does he play?"

"Yes," Diana began slowly. "Well... he did, he, uh... he died about three years ago. Christmas of my freshman year at Roosevelt."

"Oh," Parker said softly, looking away. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Diana whispered. "He was really healthy too, but I guess heart attacks can sneak up on anybody."

"Hm," Parker intoned. "I understand, uh... I lost my dad too, about a year ago."

"I know," Diana said, and Parker looked at her, surprised. She caught herself. "That's my favorite song of yours," she said, just above a whisper.

Parker smiled. "You, uh," he said, "you come hear me often?"

"Three or four times now," Diana admitted. She smiled sheepishly. "The first time was by accident, but... I mean, the coffee's good." She smiled at him.

Parker smiled too: the joke had not been lost on him. "D'you... mind if I try it?" he asked.

"Of course not," Diana said, still smiling.

Parker nodded, raised his hand to the fingerboard, let his fingers alight on the strings, and strummed a chord. It was jarring, ugly, out of tune. He jumped as if in surprise, and they both burst out laughing. "Let me fix that," he said, and he began twisting each of the pegs at the top of the instrument, plucking each string softly.

"It'll probably need new strings," Diana said, "it's been sitting in my closet for a while."

Parker plucked, twisted, plucked, and twisted just once more, uttered "there," then played the chord again. A couple of the strings buzzed unpleasantly but the chord was much more in tune. He smiled, she smiled. He looked back at the guitar and began to play, fingers plucking lightly, left hand dancing across the fingerboard, the sounds soft and mellow, warm and smooth. They seemed to wrap around Diana, caressing her skin.

Parker played his last chord, a sweet chord with a color tone that never resolved, and Diana betrayed a small shiver. He smiled, seeing goosebumps all the way up her bare arms. He signed contentedly. "Thanks for that," he said, laughing lightly.

"Thank you," Diana said, then she smiled brightly.

Parker requited her smile, then made to hand the guitar back to her. She did not take it. Instead, she shook her head. "Keep it," she whispered.

Parker withdrew his arm slightly, then cocked his head at her. "Uhh," he said, "what?"

Diana laughed. "Keep it," she repeated, stronger this time. "It's not doing anybody any good here. Besides... my dad would have loved your playing." She smiled softly. "I think he'd want you to have it."

Parker attempted to form words, but nothing coherent settled on his tongue. His hand began to tremble slightly. "Diana," he said finally. "I... this is the most beautiful guitar I've ever seen. Are you... do you... really?"

Diana laughed again. "Yes," she said with emphasis, "please. Keep it."

Parker held the guitar out in front of him, regarding the gentle curves with adoring eyes. "I..." he began. "I don't even..." He set the guitar gently on the kitchen table, then, suddenly, threw himself at Diana and wrapped her tightly in his arms. "Thank you," he said with fervor. "I cannot thank you enough."

Recovering from her surprise, Diana embraced him back. "I can't thank you enough," she whispered, and then broke apart. She smiled, and Parker noticed once again the purple bruise that blossomed around her eye. "You did save me, after all. I wanted to do something to thank you." She smiled.

Parker smiled even bigger, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is... this is incredible."

Diana giggled. "Here," she said, rising, "I think I have a soft case for it, for the trip home." She turned and padded her way back down the hall to her room, returning with a faded, dusty black cordura gig bag.

"Perfect," Parker said, taking it from her. With trembling hands he lowered the guitar into the bag, zipping it up and slinging it over his back. They looked at each other once more. Wordlessly, all thanks being given, Parker hugged her once again. He relished the way the curve of her breast pressed into his chest as they embraced. They broke apart, smiled at each other for another moment. "Will I see you again?" Parker asked, somewhat surprised by his own boldness.

"Are you playing again tomorrow night?" Diana asked. He nodded. "Then you'll see me again."

They stood staring at each other, the moments stretching on. Finally, Parker placed a hand on each of Diana's shoulders. "I'll see you then," he whispered, and slowly, deliberately, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. He smiled brightly, turned, whispered "goodnight," and left Diana's apartment.

She was nearly dizzy with happiness as she stood swooning in the kitchen, then half-walked, half-danced back down the hallway into her room, collapsing on her bed with a sigh.

He was nearly dizzy with happiness as he left through the gate, walked the six and a half blocks back to the Racine stop, rode the eastbound Blue Line train back to the Loop, transferred to a Brown Line train at Clark and Lake, rode this train north, disembarked at Wellington, and eventually found his way back into his apartment. He pulled the gorgeous instrument from its case, picked up his stand, moved it into his room, and put the guitar on it. It shone at him in the light from his lamp. He lay back in his bed, letting the events of the evening wash over him. He could not remember being given a better gift by anyone. Let alone someone so beautiful. The golden hair, the emerald eyes, the way her tank top traced the curves of her body... the way her breasts had pressed into him as they'd embraced....