The Sax
By Paul Teodo and Tom Myers
“OH, I THOUGHT YOU WERE SOMEONE ELSE.”
He paused. “I am.”
“Pardon me. It’s difficult to hear,” she said.
“I am somebody else.”
“No, I mean, I thought you were someone I knew.”
“I wish I was,” smiling, catching her eyes.
“You look like someone I was waiting for. You’re not.”
“Give me a chance. I could be.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I do.”
“Give me a chance.”
“Are you always like this?”
“I’ve never been like this.”
She studied him. “Never?”
“Never.”
The low vibrato of the sax hummed over the room. People danced slowly.
“Has anyone ever told you?”
“What?”
“You look like someone else?” She took a sip from her drink. A cherry languidly swirled in her glass.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“You’re something.”
“So are you.”
Her gray-blue eyes caught the dim light. “Are you always like this?”
“You asked me already.”
“No. I mean with your words. The way you talk.” It sounded like a question.
“I don’t think so.”
“Only with me?”
“I find you...” The song ended. People clapped like they do after they dance close.
“Yes?”
“Stunning.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I trust you?” she asked.
Her black gown hung smoothly over her curves. Her dark hair casually covered her bare shoulders
“What is trust?” he asked.
She paused, studying him. “Do you work nearby?”
“Trust me,” he interrupted.
She looked away, swishing the cherry with the straw, trying to decide. “When I feel confident someone will be good to me. They won’t hurt me.”
“Have you been hurt?”
“That’s very personal.”
“I believe trust is about how I feel about me,” he paused, “not you.”
“That’s odd.”
“How do you feel about yourself?”
She gently nibbled her lower lip. “Sometimes I feel… Why I am telling you this?”
“I asked.”
She took a small sip. Her nails were clear, shiny. Her lips barely red. “At times I feel like I can run very, very fast”
“And other times?”
“I feel like I’m stuck in mud.”
“And when do you trust the most? When you’re running fast or stuck in mud?.”
“Running fast.”
“See?”
“I don’t know what to make of you,” she said.
“You don’t have to make anything.”
Over her shoulder, her eyes met someones, no longer his.
“You’ve found him,” he said.
“Who?”
“The somebody you thought I was.”
“How do you know?”
“You told me.”
She looked confused.
“With your eyes,” he said.
“You’re something.”
“So are you.”
Her gaze left his.
“Please don’t leave me,” he said.
“Have people,” she looked back at him, “left you?”
The sax started again. Another song that made him want to cry.
“Have they?” she asked.
“Too many times,” he said, looking away.
He could feel the man behind him. He looked. He turned back to her.
Her attention shifted reluctantly between them.
“Please don’t leave.” His hands trembling.
Her eyes grew moist.
“Please,” he said once again.
She took his hand. “Do you dance?”
“All night, with you.”
She grasped his shoulder.
He pulled her in.
“The sax, it makes me feel…”
“Me too,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“It makes me feel.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Like I’ve not felt before.”
“Before what?” she asked.
“Before you.”
“Good,” she said.
“Is he gone?”
“Who?”
“Somebody else,” he said.
“He’s gone,” Her hand stroked his neck, moving to the moan of the sax.
He pulled her closer, her body warm, not resisting. He closed his eyes, the way the sax makes you close your eyes.
“I’m so happy,” she said.
“Why?” he whispered.
“That you were someone else,” she whispered back.
They danced, to the sax, slow, the way the sax makes you want to dance.
“Me too,” he said, moving slowly to the sax, wanting this to never stop.