The hazy autumn sun slants through the apartment window and I can't breathe. The light seems to worship him, sitting on the sofa near the window. It sets his cornsilk hair on fire and warms the coolness of his face. Evening certainly looks good on him. As do the unexpected jeans, expensive looking black boots and sweater.
His eyes are intent upon the instrument in his nimble hands, but I feel his awareness as I go through my comfortable rituals. Light the candles in the fireplace, plug in the lights strung over the window, turn down the dimmer switch, make the tea. Things I do every night by myself. It is so strange to have him here, in this tiny room.
He strums his fingertips along the strings of the guitar and it sends shivers up my spine.
"Stop stalling," his voice is a caress although I shouldn't think of it that way. He is here for one reason and one reason only.
"You can't learn to play if you stand there overanalyzing everything. How tedious that must be," there's a hint of an eye-roll in his voice, but my back is to him as I pour the water out of the kettle and fill the tea pot. Chamomile. I feel some tension flee just from the smell of it.
Grabbing two mugs from the counter, I carry everything to the coffee table.
He sets the guitar aside and slouches back into the minimalist lines of my sofa. There is a smirk on his face, of course.
"After all these years, you call on me to teach you such a mundane thing," he shakes his head. Does he feel as out of sorts as I do? If so he hides it better.
"Yes," I say sitting down on the other side of the couch. "I can't afford lessons with an actual person."
"Actual person? Darling, you may find that you can't afford them with me either," his gaze rakes over my purposely frumpy person. Large gray sweater, old jeans and bare feet. He never named a price. I am not in a hurry to discover what it is.
Jareth smiles as if he can read my thoughts. "Come here."
I frown in confusion and annoyance. What was I thinking asking him to be my teacher? Giving him permission to order me about? "I am here."
An eyebrow arches elegantly as he points to the space between his legs.
Heat radiates up my neck and I feel it bloom across my cheeks, but I set my tea-cup down and move to stand. He just has to torture me.
Nervously, I seat myself practically in his lap as he reaches around to pick up the guitar and set it in my hands. His chest rests against my back as he positions my hands on the strings. I am sure my heartbeat will echo through the instrument as I perch on the edge of the seat, rigid with awareness of him.
"First, you will need to learn a few chords," he says, breath warming my neck.
"I think you are taking some liberties here, couldn't you have shown me this on the other side of the sofa?" I mumble, while his hands—mercilessly ungloved— continue to position mine. He names the configurations, but I can't focus. I am never going to learn to play the guitar. But, he already knows how to play me.