Accustomed to Her Face Ch. 03bybill33©
Tea and Forbidden Fruit
It was hot summer that day after the night you kissed me the first time and fell asleep in my arms. I didn't hear a peep from upstairs at all. I wasn't really worried - I knew you needed to sleep it off and to think about whatever your unrequited love problem must be.
I had work to do. Several long business phone calls and reviewing some recordings for friends took up the afternoon. After some supper, I settled down at my piano to work a bit more on the tune from last night. Of course I lost track of time. I always do. So before I knew it was dark outside.
I made myself some tea in my favorite tea pot - the one that had been a gift from a friend in China and returned to the piano just to play. Three or four songs later, I heard a quiet suppressed sneeze from the top of the big staircase that wound from the front of the house around and up - its balustrades overlooking the big old living room.
I stopped playing - "Hello!" I said. No response. "I know you're up there."
You crept slowly into view on the stairs, looking down at me tentatively. "Come down - come down," I said.
You slowly and sheepishly came down and over toward the piano. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to listen - I love to hear you play."
I smiled. I was, of course, flattered. "You're welcome to listen any time - besides - it's nice to have an audience - it'll make me try harder. I'm flattered you like it at all - it's kind of old-fashioned, I guess."
"Oh, no - it's beautiful. They're wonderful songs. I - I - I could listen all day and night."
I was very flattered. "Would you like some tea?"
"Oh - I should go back upstairs. I'm taking your time."
"No - no - don't be silly. Get yourself a cup - one of these from that cabinet there."
You hesitated, but turned and walked to the big old built-in cabinet by the door to the butler's pantry. I watched you walk. You were wearing a light summer dress - really just a shift made out of thin flowered cotton with short sleeves and low neckline. The skirt came to just above your knees. It was cut with just the right flair so that as you walked it flowed slightly around your legs.
It was beautiful on you. As you approached the cabinet, the light of the kitchen hall showed through the dress so I could see the clear silhouette of your legs and waist through the fabric. The natural sway of your hips was riveting.
I couldn't help myself. I knew you were much, much younger than I. I smiled at my reaction. I thought to myself that you'd make some fellow very happy someday - and probably soon - you were so pretty and ripe for the picking. I shook my head and chuckled quietly at my own thoughts, looking down at my hands, splaying my fingers over the keys, ivory and ebony -- like in that silly song. I was lost in thought for a minute.
"I love your hands," I looked up. I hadn't heard you come back. You had said it with a breathless quality to your voice. It made you sound awe-struck. You were standing a few feet away holding the teacup in the dim light of the portrait lights around the walls of the room. The chandelier lights were turned down so low they were barely a twinkle.
I could see the shape of your breasts through the print of your shift. Your nipples were unmistakably erect.
You were holding the tea cup in both hands as if you were afraid it would break just by touching it. It was one of the cups that matched mine.
I said, "Like this, dear," and reached slowly for your hands, drawing you closer - closer.
Your hands were warm as I softly arranged your right hand so your thumb held the egg-shell thin celadon porcelain at the rim and your fingers held the edge of the base. "This way you won't get burned when I pour."
I cradled your right hand in my left as I lifted the tea pot and poured the green tea into your cup. I could feel you trembling.
We stood there with my hand touching yours for an obviously long moment. I looked up at your face. You were frozen - looking at your hand in mine.
"I should sit," You said.
"Oh - yes - right here." I pointed to the chair by the right end of the piano keys. "Sit here."
You carefully sat. I noticed you had a ribbon in your black hair. You look a sip of your tea and looked up at me. Our eyes truly met. You were so beautiful - the vision of a young woman in love and I thought whoever you have fallen for is a very lucky boy.
We began to talk. The weather. School. One cup of tea led to another. I made you laugh - I can't remember how - except that when I heard it I thought that any man worth his salt would devote his life to making you happy just so he could hear that laugh, see that smile, watch those eyes lighting up - just for him.
We must have talked for a couple hours. I made us sandwiches. You made us bowls of ice cream. We repaired back to the living room and sat back in our places. "Please play for me," you said.
Every songwriter loves to play -- and I was playing for a dream-audience -- a very pretty girl at that. It was after midnight. I pushed the piano chair back a bit and picked up my guitar. I began to play you the lullabies I'd written years ago for a girl I knew when I was your age. Never recorded - seldom performed - and only for close friends and family in private moments.
But these songs were written by a much younger man - just a boy, really, for exactly this purpose - to gently woo a young lady - a girl... and sing her to sleep. You leaned back in your chair, you closed your eyes. You rested with a faint smile on your lips.
I played my favorite private songs for you. The ones reserved just for myself or a friend or two and after a couple hours, I was sure you were asleep. I had been singing you song after song because I didn't want the moment to end. I wanted to watch you sleeping.
I stopped and sat silent for five minutes or so - just watching you smile in your sleep - your cares evaporated - for now anyway. But then you said softly, without opening your eyes or moving at all, "Thank you," and then, in a whisper so faint it was like moonlight itself, "I'm in love with you, you know. It's hopeless."
Your smile quivered and a tear ran out of your closed left eye. I impulsively reached over and touched you tenderly where the tear was slowly tracing down your cheek. You whispered, "What can I do?"
You opened your eyes and slowly stood up, turning to go. Facing away from me you said, softly, "Please tell me to stay. Please don't let me go upstairs alone again. Please let me stay."
I was stunned, but I felt a strong wave of compassion and caring and something else I wasn't quite sure of - and I was struggling with this and for words - and you began to take a step away and I said. "Stay." I said it quietly and softly but firmly. I hadn't meant to say it that way - I just did. So it had come out like a gentle command.
Without turning, you said, "Thank you."
Than you turned and moved with an amazing grace - like a slow dance step - over to me, and sat in my lap. You leaned down and kissed me. Tenderly - then urgently, your tongue slipping into my mouth.
And I kissed you back.
In this moment I had stopped caring that you were just a girl. I had forgotten it entirely. I was full of you and the perfume of your mouth. So I kissed you back for real.
I felt you tremble. I knew with a certainty that you had never been kissed like this before. I took your breath away. I slipped my hands on either side of your waist and held you while I kissed you deeply - the kind of kiss lovers give when they're about to fuck each other's brains out. I knew you needed a kiss like that. Your trembling became shaking.
The kiss ended - you gasped, "My God! My God!" and then in as sultry a voice as your girlish neck could utter you said, "My love is not unrequited - just a forbidden fruit." And you smiled at me with deep mischief and said, "Have an apple, Daddy." And then you kissed me again. And again.