colin spoelman

Chad flicks on a light switch in the basement—a narrow concrete room lined with long, wooden shelves. An old exercise gym stands in one corner; in another, a pool table with legal boxes stacked on top.

Chad opens a closet door to a laundry room, quickly closes it, finds another closet door. Inside, boxes filled with wine bottles are stacked on their side, lying on wood pallets on the floor. Chad starts pulling out bottles, looking at labels. He rejects several, but selects two.

When he returns, Nora is looking at one of the bookshelves that flank the fireplace on the high western wall.

“Listen here, baby, I got us a '68 and a '74. Which are you?”

“These books are spectacular. I haven't found one published after 1900.”

“Which are you?”

“I think I'm a '68. If I may be so bold.”

He gives her a glass and pours the wine.

“To the beach.”

They clink glasses and Jack takes a sip.

“Shit is good, right?”

Nora sips and grimaces.

“Spicy, right?” Jack looks at her expectantly. Nora shudders.

“I think it's turned.”

Chad is crestfallen. “Good thing for '74.”

“A more responsible year, I think.”

“Cheers.”

They drink, slowly. She smiles. He kisses her, suddenly self-conscious.

“Come on, kiss me like you know me.”

“But I don't know you. Isn't that part of the pleasure?”

They kiss again, but Chad breaks it. He motions to the rest of the house and she follows.

***

He leads her upstairs. On the landing, the full scale of the house is visible. From that vantage point, it’s possible to see almost every part of the house, as all of the rooms seem to be arranged in such a way that space, light and air might be allowed to pass through the house. But in the cold and dark, the effect is spooky.

They find themselves in a music room overlooking a portion the main living space, below. A Bosendorfer grand piano fills the room, which is lit by eerie moonlight from clerestory windows. Nora sits down at the piano bench, looks back at Chad with a wordless petition. He nods, allowing her to continue. She begins, quietly plucking the first notes, while Chad watches, entranced.

Nora begins to add more notes, and as soon as she does, the music becomes immediately more sophisticated, as the memory, perhaps faded and disjointed, returns slowly but consistently, filling the room with the growing depth of the music. She is a truly gifted pianist, and her inebriation does not affect her ability to play.

Chad sits down next to her to listen. He tries to kiss her neck, but she refuses him. He smiles, closes his eyes, and sways to the increasingly intense music. He nips on a bottle of wine that he carries around like a beer.

The music is unusual—a sort of prolonged chord progression punctuated by rolling arpeggios of notes, all juxtaposed with periods of silence. In those moments, the notes ring and hang in the air, full of tense, wet notes. Chad, filled with the excitement of the song, tries to kiss her again, and she dismisses him again. He tries a different tactic: he places a hand on her chest as she plays. He can feel her heart beating and her chest heaving with each breath, timed to the music. He begins unbuttoning her shirt, but she brushes him away before he can finish.

Chad crawls under the piano bench, so his head is between her legs as she works the pedals. Her arms move deliberately above him, and she gazes at the place where sheet music should have been. Chad reaches up to her waist.

Chad upnizps her fly, revealing a delicate triangle of white lace panties. He pauses, sensing that she enjoys this distraction, or the challenge of having to play while being teased. For a few moments he revels in her tease, but her playing is so measured and focused that he begins to feel a sadness that he cannot explain. He takes a long hard drink of the wine.

He reaches up again, but she squeezes her legs together, preventing him from getting closer.