It was the early seventies, and we were all friends.
We had been traveling around the country together for months. We laughed
at silly men spending money to make sure everyone would see where they were
buried. We smiled at the huge bronze statue of
a portly man nobody knew. And, we drove.
Months and miles passed by. It was she, and I, and him and she was beautiful,
with dark brown shoulder length hair feathered back like blair from The
Facts of Life. Sometimes in a white t-shirt and bell bottoms, sometimes
in a soft, off-white, floral dress.
One day, she held my hand crying as we walked past a brick wall to
our motel room. She held my hand to her lips and said "Do you love
me as much as I love you?" We had been together for so long, and grown
so close, that somewhere in there we all fell in love, she with both of
us and both of us with her. But we had never said it. We had never acted
on it until now. And I did love her. She filled my heart and made
me happy, but part of me wondered if it was as much as hers, and feared
that maybe it wasn't enough for her. "I think so." I said, but
wished I could say more, wishing I didn't have that doubt.
I held her hand tight and led her into the motel and laid her down on
the bed still crying. I walked around, knelt beside her head, and kissed her. And she was so beautiful, curled almost fetally.
As lips touched her head arched back with eyes closed, her stomach clenched,
and legs squeezed. Her tongue pushed into my mouth, searching for me, and
the sounds she made were exquisite. No other sound could make me feel more
wanted, more needed, than the sweet moans she did produce. And I loved her,
loved being with her, loved kissing her, loved my hand on her side, loved
spending my life with her.
Time passed, and we were happy. The three of us were happy. He and I
were not in love, but we loved and cared for each other. We gave each other
smiles, and smiled together at her, loving the sight of her happy with either
or both of us. One day I sat at the portable record player listening to
the 45 the three of us had produced. It was our music. Then, I put on the
45 from her new album. Her work, her music. And I thought of her in my
minds eye. She was a percussionist, and I saw her flat on her back sweaty
and glowing after playing. I smiled, and, behind me, I could feel them
smiling too as the music of her new song filled the room through a tinny