No One Can

[ceciliatan]

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

I woke up in the morning with Ziggy attached to me like a starfish.

“When was the last time you got off?” he asked.

The ceiling was a different color of white from the walls. Had I never noticed that before? “Um. A while ago…?”

He proceeded to make love to me with lazy morning languor, despite the fact Tony was due to pick us up shortly. “If we’re late, we’ll blame traffic,” Ziggy said when he realized I was trying to see the clock radio.

Okay, fine. I didn’t manage to forget about everything we had hanging over us, but sex was nice anyway. When he was satisfied that I was satisfied, and his sweat was drying on my skin, I said, “Sorry about kicking you out last night.”

“Are you?” He licked behind my ear.

“Sorry? Yeah. But I would’ve kicked out anyone, really.”

“Anyone?”

“Anyone.”

“Even a pet journalist or significant other?” he asked.

His voice was mild but I knew better than to take that for granted. I turned his face with my callused fingertips so I could see his eyes. “Maybe especially a pet journalist or a significant other or anyone else I didn’t want to see me struggle.”

He got a stricken look on his face and for half a moment I thought I’d been too candid, that the truth hurt him more than me being cruel and kicking him out for spite. Then I realized he was just upset in sympathy for me. “Oh, God. Dare I ask how it went?”

“Rough, but I’m optimistic I can get it in shape if I can just carve out a little time tonight and tomorrow,” I said. He clearly didn’t remember the brief conversation we’d had while he was mostly asleep last night. “We’re going to do it with samplers, loops, and foot pedals.”

“Now I’m curious.”

“You’ll hear what we come up with soon enough,” I said. Opening night was looming, after all. “But I’m not letting you hear it until there’s something worth hearing.”

Now the hurt look was personal. “Why?”

Despite being completely sure I knew how I felt about it, I didn’t have a good explanation of it. “Why do you want to hear me struggle?”

“I want to support you and root for you to win.” He rolled so that he was curved toward me with the coverlet wrapped around him like a tortilla around burrito filling. “Is that so bad?”

“I…” Did not know what to say to that.

“I love watching you figuring things out,” he added.

“You can support me best by giving me the time and space to figure it out without any audience,” I said.

He pouted a little but kissed me with his pouty full bottom lip. “That’s what Barret said, too. That it was my idea to have you as opener and if I didn’t want to regret that decision I should give you some space.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t deal well with being excluded, I guess.”

Him being open and truthful should not have provoked an angry response from me, but I couldn’t help but be a little sharp. “Jeezus, Ziggy, it’s just two more days!”

“I guess I’ll have to deal with it, then,” he said, gave me one last cursory kiss, and then rolled off the bed and into the shower.

I had a feeling I was going to need to triangulate with Barrett a lot if he was going to be like this.

—

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(Happy Passover to all who celebrate it! Happy Tuesday to everyone else, of course. This band is better than this song. Ugh, 1991. -d)