Symphony for an Unseasonable Autumn Night
The leaves never change colour in L.A., and maybe it's because of this that you're so depressed. You miss being able to run your fingers over a bright red leaf, pick up a golden-brown masterpiece from the grass, piece together a fall mosaic in wax paper, ironed down just the way you used to with your nanny, long ago. However, no matter how you try to blame it on autumn, the real reason why you can't stop crying at night is because you left her behind.
She angrily left your house that night, because stupidly, you timed the news of your departure shortly after you'd finished making her come. You thought maybe the dizzy, dazed, wonderful feeling of having a fucking good orgasm would soften the blow a little. You thought you knew she'd never want to come with you – you know now that she would have followed you to the ends of the earth, but it's too late now. Like everything else in your life, it's too late now and all you've got left is this iPod sitting in front of you.
No, you didn't steal her iPod. What kind of a person would do that? Especially one who has enough money to buy twenty iPods, if she wishes? No, she left it in your hotel room, and you didn't realize that you had it until you unpacked in the condo beside the sapphire sea and found it nestled in your white silk nightgown. You're going to mail it back – she's probably cursing that she lost it – but something draws you to wedge the little earbuds in your ears (and you have always had trouble with this – your ears are beautiful, but they're oddly shaped) and gently touch the clickwheel. Immediately, the iPod springs to life, albeit life for only a few minutes, since it hasn't been charged in about a week.
Song one – "All You Need Is Love", by the Beatles. You used to tease her about downloading deliberately cheesy songs onto her mp3 player. Instead of laughing and teasing you back, however, she pouted and turned away, and you found out later that it was her grandmother's favourite song, and suddenly you vaguely remember her red-eyed and tired-looking, slinking around the hospital two months earlier because her grandmother had passed away. So you had to soothe her, and one thing led to another, and suddenly you were on your back in the on-call room and you were kissing her fiercely while your fingers worked on her under the covers while the iPod rang tinnily from the floor. When she came (and you came, shortly thereafter), she breathed, "I guess the song was right," and collapsed on your chest, where you kissed her blonde hair and held her so closely to you, because letting her go at that moment would feel like ripping your own skin off.
The iPod skips forward and the gentle strains of a masterfully-played piano fill your ears, and suddenly your eyes fill with tears as you realize what song this is. "Anna Rose", by Vienna Teng. One night, you woke up and she was crying beside you. She wouldn't tell you why – in fact, you never found out why. But you didn't really need a reason to gather her into your arms and rock her gently while you sang her the lullabye in your clear soprano voice. And she didn't really need a reason not to rest her head on your chest and turn her teary face into your soft breasts, and let her sadness take over, because sometimes, doctors are under a lot of stress, and sometimes, they just need to not make the decisions and not talk.
You need to stop the iPod for a moment after that song, but it inexorably moves forward to song number three – "Grey in L.A.", by Loudon Wainwright. It's a folksy sort of satirical tune that makes you smile and then makes you cry, like actually sob, because it's actually how you feel about this town and for a moment you wonder why you ever came here. Wainwright's sad voice fills your ears as you take a quick account of the pros and cons of living in L.A., and right now it seems like everything's one big con, because she's not here and you're alone and trying to establish yourself at work, and sorry, but sometimes best friends don't cut it when you'd really like to feel her lips on yours and her warm weight against your chest.
The iPod flashes off – it's run out of juice, and maybe that's just as well, because you're a crying mess. You hear a knock on your door, but you don't bother to get up, because you're not in the mood to see anyone right now and it's probably Sam or Naomi, wanting to bitch about their lives and their problems, and you can't listen, no, not right now. Who takes care of Addison? No one does, and for a minute you feel six years old and heartbroken, but this time no one's going to pick you up and hold you close and tell you that tomorrow's a new day.
The knocking gets louder, and finally you give up – fine. Fine! You'll get up and answer the fucking door, because it's always someone else's turn. You stomp towards the foyer, not caring if your mascara is running or if you're wearing a slightly wine-stained grey t-shirt from Columbia. You open your mouth to yell – "Honestly, Naomi, can I not have ONE NIGHT to myself for once –" and meet her surprised brown eyes as you fling open the door.
"Hey." Her voice is quiet, slightly husky, as it always is when she's tired or kind of upset. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail; she looks beautiful, even though she's only wearing a white shirt, dark jeans, and a dark-brown hoodie. You suddenly feel ashamed of how bad you look and step back one, two steps, back onto the cold tile floor. "Hey," you reply, your voice surprised, tears still glistening on your cheeks. You stare at her for a moment, your face still mid-trembling-lipped pout, and then bury your face in your hands again, sinking to the floor, because this is the last thing you expected and you're too upset to be polished or polite.
Although she has every right to be pissed at you for leaving, and although she has every right to hate you, she doesn't. In fact, all she's done is just missed you in a pure sort of stabbing fashion, and she managed to get your apartment number from Savvy, who's the only one you gave contact details to. So she doesn't yell, and she doesn't smack you, and she doesn't start throwing random things at your head, which is what she wanted to do after you left. Instead, she sinks down next to you, and crosses her legs, and puts her arms around your shaking shoulders, and pulls you towards her.
For a minute you're paralyzed by the smell of her perfume and her hair and just her, and you cling tightly to her because it's such a huge mistake, living here when she doesn't. She starts to rub your back and stroke your hair, which is a little tangled from the nap that you took when you got home at four that afternoon (quite the change from eleven or twelve at night). She doesn't say anything and neither do you, and for a moment, it's all pure bliss.
Then she lets go, gets up, and heads towards your bedroom. Confused, you follow her to see her pick up the iPod and put it in her pocket. "I was looking for this," she says, face stony, no expression. She goes to walk past you and that's when you grab her around the waist, pulling her towards you, and capture her soft mouth with yours.
The kiss is hungry, it's needy, it's born of desperation on both your parts. It goes on and on until the stars start to appear on your eyelids, and then it stops abruptly when she plunges her hands under your sweatpants and slides a finger inside of you. Her other fingers work at your clit and you began to get weak in the knees as you thrust back against her, your fingers in her hair.
Somewhere in the back of your head, you're aware that your downstairs neighbour might be able to hear you as your voice escalates up the scale, and you really, REALLY hope you remembered to close the curtains or else everyone at Oceanside's going to hear about your little escapade tomorrow, but the main part of your brain is focused on her sweetness, on the softness of her skin and the way she just made you come spectacularly, and you're not sure you have any clean panties left because tonight is laundry night.
When you're done, and she's done, and silence has fallen, she gets up and heads towards the bedroom.
"So, you coming?" She turns back, gives you a little smile.
There's so much more to be said here. There's so much more to go over. But somehow, you really can't do it tonight, and maybe you should just leave it, even though you're the type of person who picks at her nails until they bleed.
So you snuggle in bed and she plugs the iPod into your laptop, and the music drifts out through the speakers and into the warm night.
And maybe the fact that the leaves don't change colour here and that it's never grey in L.A. is okay. For now.