Empty house, quiet. No noise of life, no frenzied greetings from kids or dogs, just silence. The dark and the lack of vibration tells me the house is empty, or nearly so, yet I am not apprehensive. The silence is more peace than fear, more restful than fearful. There is nothing to fear here, of that I am sure. This is my home, though my family may not be here for whatever reason.
The scent hits me first. Jasmine? No, more visceral, guttural. It leaves a thick coating on the back of the throat, swallow it if I could, but it's not there all of a sudden. Gardenia? Magnolia? Visuals of big, musky, waxy white blooms explode in my head when I close my eyes and drink it in. This is her doing, I know it. It smells nothing like her, yet it conveys her essence, her sensuality, her fire. Eyes closed still, I inhale deeply, letting the aroma sink its claws into my consciousness. It drags me toward it, begging for my attention, for my glance, an acknowledgment. As I open my eyes, the flowers tint my vision, filtering the light, my consciousness, the way I feel my home. Every color brighter, every shadow darker.
I can see the breeze as it floats by, eddying in my wake as I stir. I feel her, sense her presence. I am drawn to her now, yet I resist, as she knows I will. Too many sensations present here to rush out without cataloguing them, the better to describe them later, with my arms around her, whispering into her ear, exhausted and exhilarated, willing the warmth of her to ignite us both and send us back into that sepia-tinted place we inhabited for so long tonight.
Then I hear the music. I think it's music. It is rhythmic, and somehow deliberate, though so faint as to be barely discernible as manmade. A tribal rhythm, a primal ache in my chest, I sway along, unable to help myself. This is the hook, I know. Her way of guiding me to her, she knows I cannot resist it for long, despite my reluctance to stay and commit every instant to memory. It grows slowly louder, as if it were approaching, but I realize it is I who am moving, slowly, inexorably toward it, steps so deliberate as to go unnoticed. I see the notes, not as Disney-esque quarter and whole notes flying past in Technicolor, but as tones of color, shades of warmth in the air. As I move silently through the house, my perception is colored. The music, for it IS music, becomes more audible, the different instruments becoming clearer, yet clouding my vision. Raucous, almost, yet so controlled. As if kindling a fire, such precision and care put into summoning so elemental a force, uncontrollable by nature. The bajo sexto, its somehow organic bass notes reverberate, making the floor and the walls and the ceiling itself vibrant, somehow more present, more substantial.
The guitar, its pleasant buzz making the air rush past me, in a hurry to get to her, not understanding how I can resist, how I can keep from running headlong. Trumpet and piano slash the air like dueling swordsmen, the heat of their exchange making the room palpably warmer, aggressive and yet restive at once, like sleeping predators. Words, unintelligible to the ear, yet their meaning immediately clear, the voice expressing all that ever needed to be said, though standing next to the singer might not yield results ever expressed in any vocabulary. I can resist no longer. The scent, the music, set the room to throbbing, almost violent in its insistence. I must go.
Down the hallway to her, dimmest suggestion of light flickering from beneath her door. Though we both lay our heads together inside, it is her room. It is her refuge, her lair, she deigns to allow me entrance, solace. Through my palm pressed flat on the partially open door, I feel the music, her breathing, her heartbeat. Anticipation courses through me, adrenaline and desire combining in a heady cocktail to make every sense a razor, every hair an antenna.
Pressing the door open slowly now, as if pulling the curtain to a command performance. The room, transformed. Gone are the clutter, the frenzy of daily life, the toys piled in corners, the diaper boxes along the walls. No trashcans, no baby bags. Every thing in this room fits, so perfectly as to have been choreographed, to create an effect. It is perfect.
Thick white cotton berber carpets cover the teak-colored floor in layers half an inch thick. They absorb all sound as I pad into the room, silent as a cat, and as all-seeing. Dark mahogany dressers or consoles line the walls to either side. Draped with the sheerest of white cotton fabrics, they support candles in the dozens. Some lit, some not, they vary in height but not shade, the same organic white as the carpet and the sheers. Thin, thick, squat, airy, together they create enough warm, almost orange light to see the rest of the room changed as well, their smoke infused with the scent of waxy white flowers, of which there are vases full all over. The far wall painted a rich ochre, reminiscent of burnt pumpkins after Halloween's fervor, supporting a huge almost black wooden rod from which are hung more of the sheerest white cottons, pooling on the floor beneath the bed.
