A Goddess

      He oddly liked the crisp cool tile nibbling at his soles as he walked out of the kitchen. He walked slowly, trying his best to balance holding un-corked bottle of white Moscato in his right hand and an already-filled glass in his left.

It was only his second glass. Or fifth. He wasn’t sure. Each time he poured more than the last. But he couldn’t care less. The day had finally ended, and he deserved it.

The meeting with his boss about his requested wage increase–the thirty bullshit-filled minutes of working around a way to say “no” to his request–had ruined his Friday at a prompt 7 AM. And immediately after, he continued his eight straight hours of dreadful office work.

Now, he walked sluggishly; his shoulders were slouching and his eyes drooping low. His mind still buzzed from staring at a 2017 computer screen for a third of his day.

He appreciated the glow of the full moon as he returned to the living room. He sat on the bench and lifted the bottle, dropping it onto the coaster sitting on top of the piano. He took more than a few sips, eventually taking a whole gulp out of the glass then lifted it to a second coaster beside the wine bottle.

            He lethargically dropped his hands to the piano keys and played a chord. B. It had subconsciously become his favorite chord to play songs in for a few months. And once he realized that his hands automatically lined up with his left pinky and thumb on B and F, he realized that the depression was starting to settle in him comfortably; he recognized the feeling and hated it.

He turned backwards on the piano bench so he could stare out the window across the living room. The view he got of the tops of the complex across, sitting under the giant sphere of beautiful blue and white hues, was worth coveting.

Breathing in deeply, he felt the slightest bit of positivity course through his veins. It was just a small amount, but it was all he needed. He turned on the seat, facing the piano once again.

He straightened his posture and returned his fingers to the keys–still in the key of B. They pressed the keys down and shuffled broadly to produce a mournful melody that made the wine start kicking in quicker.

            His fingers danced, like slaves forced to entertain, along the black and white keys. He allowed himself to get lost in thought as his subconscious took control of his wrists, his hands, his fingertips. But within seconds, depression took control and he slipped up, playing a note so bitter he had to stop and cringe. He opened his eyes, unsure of when he even closed them, and stared at the placement of his fingers.

Before he could spiral, a gust of wind swept through his small apartment and sent an immense chill down his slumped spine.

He turned to look at the window. The curtains were parted and in the air, still falling back to their resting position. He got up and walked barefoot against the nipping tile. He pulled the window down and flipped the lock on. Once again, he took a second to appreciate the giant mass of rock.

He thought of the piano and the off note he had played while his eyes remained glued to the sky. He wished he could play how the moon made him feel. He wanted to be able to use his music as a release. He deeply loved playing piano, but just wanted the piano to love him back.

“Pathetic.” A feminine voice said from behind.

He spun fast, ready to charge, run, or fight.

But instead, he froze. Immobilized by his own vulnerability, all he could do was stare.

Piercing him through the darkness of his home were two hazel eyes. It was a shock he could see them in such low lighting, but the moon’s glare almost made them impossible to miss.

Although she was sitting, she seemed tall. Andshe was beautiful. Her golden-brown skin sped his heartbeat with both fear and infatuation. It took him a couple seconds to even realize that she was sitting on top of his piano. She wore a dress made of multiple layers of lace making the baby blue, see-through material opaque. The dress was long and hung past her dangling legs, was luminescent under the beautiful, cold light.

Immediately his gaze turned to the other side of the piano. He stared at the empty glass and the bottle with less than another decent pour left in it.

“Damn, I must be drunk as—”, he was unable to talk anymore, and it only took him a second to find out why.

There was a thumb and index finger pinning his tongue between themselves. Standing in front of him was the woman. She stood at the same height as him, just inches away from his face.

Her brown lips parted, showing the edges of perfect teeth.

“Did you not summon me, Rome?” the woman asked in a voice too soothing to be an intruder’s.

Without waiting for an answer, she removed her hand and turned. She lifted herself effortlessly, as if she was floating, and sat back on top of the piano.

“Rome,” she said.

He almost flinched at the second mention of his name, as if hearing it brought fear to his heart.

“Come and play me something.” She instructed next.

He was terrified. Still stuck with his back to the window, he still hadn’t moved once.

Finally, he took a step forward. And the second step followed with even more hesitation. A couple more awkward steps and he was at the piano, sitting back onto the bench. He avoided eye contact and dropped his shaking hands back onto the black and white keys.

“Play what you were playing just now.”

His mind scrambled for answers to the questions he was too stunned to utter. Still, he apprehensively pushed down on the keys and glanced down at his hands. He played a few measures and raised his head up.

He froze for a fraction of a second as an eerie feeling crept along the edges of his skin. There was no woman at the piano.

His fingers slowed, and eventually stopped. He dropped his hands down to the bench, trying to keep his balance as his head spun. He took a deep breath and tried to focus.

“You’re terrible.” The woman’s voice said from behind instead.

His head swung around.

The woman leaned over and grabbed his wrists, placing both hands back onto the keys.

“Play me something good.” She said with anger in her eyes. “Do you not want to play how you feel?”

His stomach dropped at the question.

He began to play a melancholy melody. Her head lightly waved to the music but an ever-so-small frown was on her face.

“Stop.” She ordered.

There was silence, and in the distance were the sounds of the usual late night talking and laughing and the occasional car passing by.

He focused on the lady who was now standing beside the piano.

Her head tilted in the slightest, almost as if she was studying his face. He studied hers.

Her sharp but drawing eyes. Her smooth but mature face. She was perfection at its finest, a being of flawlessness.

 “Aalegra.” She said, introducing herself. “A goddess, a celestial, a divinity above song and beauty. An instrument, in and of herself. Capable of creation.”

She walked closer to him and picked his left hand up off the piano, holding it in hers. Then she smiled and said three words that couldn’t be more confusingly scary.

“Don’t pull away.”

Very slowly, she lifted her hand up and proceeded to put his fingers in her mouth. One by one, she softly shoved his finger tips into her mouth. 

And he didn’t pull away. He sat in his discomfort and internally gagged as she put his whole hand in her mouth. Despite his fear and disgust, what happened next was so intense, he almost blacked out.

After seconds of deafness, he realized that it was his own scream that had temporarily blocked his ears.

            He stared down at his hand—or lack thereof. His arm started at his shoulder and went to his bicep to his elbow to his forearm, to his wrist.

            His arm ended at his wrist!

Surrounded by swinging and gushing veins and arteries dumping his blood, the bone at the end of his wrist dangled out of his raw flesh.

He could literally feel his own brain warble inside his skull as he watched a tiny hand sprout from the goriness at the end of his arm.

That’s when his eyes closed and he could feel himself falling.

Quickly, he caught himself on the piano, smashing into the keys with both hands.

Hands?!

He lifted both wrists and stared at his pair of hands. His eyes shot to the floor.

The white tile directly beneath him was spotless.

His focus returned to his hands. He opened and closed his fingers repetitively and began to notice that he was in absolutely no pain at all.

“Rome.” Aalegra said from her now-normal sitting spot of the piano.

He stared into her eyes, which were somehow so kind.

“Now, play me something.” She instructed once again.

He put his fingers to the keys with less feat this time. He pushed his fingers across the keys, and it was beautiful.

Her head waved to the music and her frown was replaced with a full-lipped smile.

She dropped from the piano and walked beside him, stopping so close her dress breezed softly across his shoulder .

“Give me your other hand.” She requested.

Immediately nervous, he felt his right index finger slip on to the wrong key.

Aalegra externally cringed at the disgust for the note and took a step back. Her eyes were closed, but when they opened, they immediately locked with his.

“From now on, Rome, you play exclusively for me. I’ll lead you to opportunities and lead opportunities to you.” She said and leaned over to caress his face.

He moved an inch back but didn’t remove his face from her hands.

“OK?” She asked.

Before she could even receive and answer, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.

His body flung back, and his legs hit the bottom of the piano hard, sending the bottle and glass tipping over and rolling to the tile in a synonymous shatter. Yet it didn’t bother him as much as it normally would’ve because he was gasping for his breath. Panicking, he begged for air but just could not inhale.

Eventually the lightheadedness began to kick in. His eyes were watering, his lungs burning, and his legs began to twitch. He leaned out and grabbed the bottom edge of the piano. He pulled himself up and sat back down, finally taking the deep inhale that he had been craving.

Through teary eyes, his head darted in all directions in search of her. But then his eyes stopped and stared at the bottle and the wine glass on top of the piano. Both were still on top of their coasters.

He looked down at his fingers, which looked like they were in the middle of playing something. Without moving, he pushed his hand down. He was pleased with the sound.

He stared at his hands again and pressed down on the keys once more.

He relaxed and began to play.

Perfect note after perfect note, his own playing impressed him. And in the midst of playing, he caught his gaze fixated on his left hand. He looked at his wrist and thought about the tattoo he had gotten a couple years prior. He stared at the two numbers representing the anniversary of the person who held his whole heart for many, many yea—

He blinked hard and stopped playing abruptly. He lifted his hands up, twisting them back and forth. There was no two-digit tattoo there. No ink in his skin. No permanent reminder of a past commitment that led to his biggest heartbreak.

A feminine laugh mocked from behind him. He swung all the way around and saw her sitting on the window ledge.

“Never would I have believed a man could give a goddess such minimal attention.” She huffed. “But you aregetting a lot better, Rome.”

She walked back to him and grabbed his hands, this time holding them low.

“I’m going to make you great again, Rome.” She assured him.

She dropped his left hand and held his right.

He opened his eyes after another almost-blackout. He regained his hearing once again as his body returned to a deep pain it recognized. He looked down at his right hand—a lack there of. Shoulder, bicep, elbow, forearm, wrist. Again.

Within seconds, or possibly minutes, of more gut-wrenching pain, a tiny hand began to sprout once again.

“Rome, play me something.” She said as she turned to stare out of the window.

And the pain disappeared again. He looked at his wrists and saw both hands.

He turned back towards the piano.

His fingers danced, not as slaves, but as a choreographed unit. Each finger did impressively to play their part, and after ten minutes of impeccable keystrokes, his fingers all hit their respective end note.

He exhaled and turned back around. He sat alone in his apartment.

He turned back around and closed the piano. Realizing his current exhaustion, he rose to his feet and grabbed both the bottle and the glass. He took them back into the kitchen and returned them to their respective placements before crawling into the bed.