11 comments/ 11146 views/ 6 favorites Glittering Green, Glowing Gold By: deepnight512 The last chord rang in the air. Three steel strings, plucked on the fingerboard, bright and keening, silver dissonance. The left hand held the neck of the guitar while the right hand fell gently upon the strings by the bridge. Gentle pressure, gradually increasing, the sound fading, fading, fading, then blending with the silence that filled the room. Suddenly, a sharp noise, then a rush of sound: applause rang out from the grateful customers in the coffee shop. The musician, eyes closed, smiled gently. He raised his head, tossing his dark brown bangs out of his dark brown eyes as they opened, taking in the cozy room filled two-to-one with patrons. The applause died slowly, the wave of sound morphing into individual sharp pops, then a smattering of soft taps. The young man at the front of the room laughed once, gently. "Thank you," he said into the sterling-and-sable microphone, its gooseneck stand craning, arcing smoothly toward his mouth. "That was an instrumental called 'Metra Rolling.' I'd like to thank you all for coming out to the Daily Grind on a breezy Friday night. I think I'll close with a number I wrote a couple of years ago, um-" Here he paused a moment, shifted on his stool. "A couple of years ago my father passed away, and... and he was such a wonderful, gentle man, and I've tried to capture that in this song. Thanks once again to the Daily Grind for letting me play tonight, don't forget to tip your lovely barista." He nodded toward the woman, short, black-haired, thirties, behind the counter and smiled. A modest cheer went up for her, she waved it off. "Yeah," the man's baritone timbre intoned, "so, I hope everyone has a wonderful night and gets home safe. This is 'Silver Surf, Golden Glow,' I hope you enjoy it." The young man's head dropped again, the curtain of his hair falling, hiding the stage that was his eyes. He adjusted his guitar, a blonde Martin, and when he was prepared he rested his fingertips on the strings. No pick, only gentle fingers, drew forth a single, warm chord, fingers shifting on the frets to change one note, then both hands intoning a new chord, deep and major with one tone errant, lending unexpected color. He continued in this manner for some sixty seconds, heed payed to no one else in the room, no one else in the world. A soft chord rang, he breathed deeply, and in a deep voice, the color of the coffee in the cups on the tables and in the hands of the people in the room, he began to sing. Morning light, Alighting on the water like a lark, Harbinger of a new day. Water, softly humming, Softly rolling, softly singing, With ripples, tides and waves And ebb and flow, It falls upon the beach, Silver surf, golden glow. Noontime sun, Warming all the people like a song, Brings them out, no more to hide. And the waves, their crashing Blending with their voices Like a song, a prayer, a chord, A symphony; They're reflected in your eyes, All this you can see. Here there was an interlude, the man's hands dancing along smooth neck and silver strings. Bursts of color, heard but not seen, filled the room, swirling in the air. There was a rise, a build, a climax, a falling, a drifting, a settling. Again came three familiar chords, deep and warm. Evening sparkle, Stars lost but for the ones among The city lights, the peoples' hearts and minds. Gentle gold, clinging, slipping from the day It fades to red and orange and yellow, Pink and blue; Fading out beautifully, Gracefully, Just like you. The music slowed, grew softer, the chords less lush. When I stand, Watching morning, noon or evening I feel the heartbeat of the people anchored here. I close my eyes, I can feel the planet spinnin', Never stopping, never will: yeah, this I know; The light, the water: it's only you. Silver surf, golden glow. One last chord, hushed, somber, quickly faded. The applause was gentle, warm, the audience moved. The man smiled gently, eyes downcast. "Thank you," he almost whispered. He rose from stool, turned for the side door. "Goodnight, Linda," he called as the crowd began to stir, waving toward the counter. "Goodnight, sugar," Linda called back, "get home safe." The young man nodded, slung his guitar over his back, neck pointing toward Earth, and opened the door, slipping out quietly. His ears were met by the ubiquitous, reliable murmur of the Chicago evening. Taxis beeped, buses rumbled, people laughed and shouted, music blared, the El thundered by overhead. He deeply partook in a draught of the April air. His old familiar half-smile alighted on his face once more as he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned right, rounding the corner, heading west on Lake Street, the El track stretching out overhead. As he walked he could hear the thudding of a club on the corner growing steadily louder. He let his head fall, picking up speed so as to escape without drawing notice from the clientele. "Hey! Hey, is that a guitar?" Too late. She stumbled up to him, black pleather dress cut shamefully low, on the other end leaving little of her ass to the imagination. Much to his own chagrin he felt himself slow, stop, turn. From three feet away he could smell the cheap vodka on her breath. "Hey," she slurred again, "you play the guitar." She rested both hands on his chest. "That's fuckin' sexy." "Yeah," he said quickly, taking his assailant by the wrists and gently lowering her hands for her, "I just got done playing a gig." "Wow!" she said, too enthusiastic, bending over so that the neon light from the club sign bathed the bare round of her breast in electric green. "That's... fuckin'... hey, where are you goin'?" She put her hands back on his chest. "I'm going home," he said, patiently, lowering her hands again. "You probably should too, should I hail you a cab?" "Nah, s'alright, I'll come with you," she slurred, stumbling backward, then swaying on the spot. "That's okay," he said warily, "I live on the Dan Ryan, that's a long train ride from here-" "Hey baby, listen," she mumbled, poking him in the chest, "it'd be a favor for you." She drew closer, her bare skin rubbing along his button-up shirt. "You look like you could use a good fuck," she whispered, none too quietly, then she let loose a piercing giggle. He backed away quickly, and she stumbled, almost falling. "You've had a little too much," he said, turning. "Be careful." "Fine, asshole!" she shouted at his retreating back, "go home to your fuckin' boyfriend! You don't know a good thing when you see one!" Then, just as he left earshot, she added, "fuckin' faggot!" He sighed, increasing his pace again. "No fuckin' way, sweetheart," he whispered to himself. He was just a couple of blocks from his El stop. He walked along, hands in pockets, guitar bouncing gently on his back, eyes downcast. The steel pillars, yellow paint chipped and faded, struts zigzagging up and down, passed him on the left as he walked. Something hit his shoulder. He looked up, thinking he had bumped into one of the train track's supports. The yellow was the wrong color, though. And that green didn't belong. The yellow was blonde, golden, shimmering. The green was emerald, deep, glittering. Hair fell in loose ringlets, eyes met his for a brief moment. Voice, high and silken, spoke quickly. "S-sorry." "No problem," he found himself saying. Then the green was gone, the gold slipped past, and they were walking in opposite directions again. Somehow he could not register what had just happened. Try as he might his brain could not be coherent long enough to form a sentence. Fair skin, golden hair, green eyes, beauty. That was all. Then his muddled thoughts instantly became clear. His head snapped around to follow the sharp, short scream. She was gone. Another scream. The alley. Before he was cognizant of it, his feet had taken four hurried steps toward the dark side street. He swallowed, then made the effort conscious. The girl was in the vicegrip of a large black man, South Pole shirt open, Fubu jeans sagging. In one hand he held both her wrists above her head and against the wall. He pinned her to this wall with his body, moving as she struggled. The other hand was clamped over her mouth and nose, stifling her terrified sounds. "Yeah, fight me, bitch," he whispered, "fuckin' fight me, you won't get out, dey can't hear you, dey can't see you, god what a sexy thang." He took his hand off of her mouth and began to fondle her breast, his breathing heavy, a rabid dog. She began to scream, which was silenced by a heavy slap to her face. "You fuckin' scream, you fuckin die, sweetie. You fuckin' got dat?" He pulled her hair, a sharp yank; she yelped, but stifled it. "Da's better," he grunted. "Now look at dis, huh? Take a look at my piece!" He pulled roughly downward with his left hand and she dropped to her knees with a soft cry of pain. Before her face was a throbbing, 9-inch black cock. "Take it," he whispered. He moved his hips closer to her face. She turned away, emerald eyes streaming with tears. He grabbed a handful of her golden hair at the back of her head, squeezing tightly. "I say take it!" he yelled, moving her face toward him. The young man's fist fell fast, hard, connecting with the back of the attacker's head. There was a deep, confused shout, both hands released. The girl tried to scramble to her feet, but a heavy, open hand hit her head, sending it into the brick. She crumpled in a heap. "What da fuck?" the attacker bellowed. "Da fuck you doin' down here, cracka, gon' mess wit me? Gon' fuckin mess-!" He charged at the young man, grabbing two fistfulls of his shirt, driving him backward. The young man dug in, struggling, straining, fighting. He took a swing at the rapist's head, missed, got swung around, slammed into a wall. He felt the wood of his beloved guitar shatter, heard the strings pop. His breath caught in his chest. A punch to the stomach, a fist across the face, he dropped, hearing the wooden shrapnel crunch under his body and tasting his blood. Dazed, he thought he saw the black man turn around, approach the unconscious girl, get down on one knee, lift her by her shoulders, position her head with his hands. A loud bellow filled the alleyway. The young man stood over his attacker, a sharp splinter of what had once been his guitar's neck clutched in his hand, dripping the black man's blood. He dropped the shard, grabbed the other man's head in both his hands and slammed his temple into the brick wall. He immediately collapsed. The young man gulped air, hands on hips. Then he saw the girl, golden hair stained with sticky red. He ran to her and knelt. Her chest was moving, round breasts slowly heaving. Flooded with relief, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, hastily punching three numbers. "Yeah," he said, "I'm on Lake Street between Wabash and..." he looked around for a street sign, "Beaubien. Wabash and Beaubien. I've got a... I've got two people here, they're pretty badly hurt. Yes. Yes. No, I'm okay. Okay. Thank you." He hung up. He sat on the street near the girl, keeping an eye on her heaving chest. From time to time he'd check on the black man; he never stirred. In a few minutes he heard sirens rapidly approaching. He emerged from the alleyway to wave and flag them down. Two medics and a police cruiser pulled up and stopped, lights flashing. People from nearby business, bars, restaurants began to gather. There was a flurry of activity. The black man went into one medic, the girl into another. The young man watched his happen, only half listening to the CPD uniform who was interviewing him. "I said what's your name, son." "Parker Herzlich," the young man said hurriedly, "now where-" "Can you spell that for me?" the officer said calmly, removing a small legal pad and a pen from his shirt pocket. "H-e-r-z-l-i-c-h," Parker spat. "Where are they taking her?" "...l-i-c-h," the officer mumbled. "Weird-ass name. Now what happened here tonight, Mr. Hairs-lick?" Parker sighed. "It's Herzlich," he said, with a sharp "ts" to end the first syllable and soft guttural on the last consonant. "I was walking and I passed the girl and then I heard her scream and I turned around and looked down this alley and that guy was raping her and I fought him off - hey wait!" Parker shouted, waving at the medic that was beginning to pull away, siren flaring back on. "What hospital are they taking her to?" "You said he was raping her?" the officer said, writing slowly. "She looked clothed to me." "He was about to, okay," Parker said, growing frustrated, "he was gonna force her to suck his cock, I saw it." "Look, Mr. Hairs-lick, I'm gonna need you to calm down," the officer said, thrusting his palm toward Parker's chest. "So we've got... attempted rape," he continued, beginning to write again, "assault... okay, looks pretty cut and dried. Thanks for your time, Mr. Hairs-lick." The cop smiled a tight smile, putting his legal pad back into his pocket with his pen and getting back into his cruiser. "Wait a minute!" Parker yelled, following the officer to his car. "Where are they taking her? I just want to make sure she's okay-" The cop held up a wait-a-minute finger, talking on his car radio. After an agonizing minute he replaced the radio in its slot on the dashboard. "Can't help you, son," the officer said. He tipped his cap. "Have a nice night." Siren flared on and the cruiser barreled away into the night. "Wait!" Parker yelled, running into the street. He stopped, spreading his arms in exasperation. "What the fuck?" he bellowed into the night. He then became very aware of the crowd of people still gathered, looking at him. He lowered his arms and walked quickly back into the alley. Strewn across the alley like autumn leaves were the ruins of his guitar. He knelt to pick up the piece with which he had stabbed his assailant. Slivers of the six silver strings that only minutes ago had sung so soothingly still swirled about the pegs, the broken ends curling into the air. Parker threw it away from him in disgust. He stood, slid his hands into his pockets, then viciously kicked the pile of what was now tinder. "My fuckin' guitar!" he shouted. He stood for a few moments longer, breathing heavily, eyes closed, teeth grinding. Then he turned on his heel. The rest of the journey was uneventful, or maybe it just seemed that way because of Parker's adamant refusal to meet any person's eye or respond to any sound. He found his way to the Loop, to the Brown Line stop at Lake and State. This train would take him north, away from the Dan Ryan. He climbed the old wooden stairs, swiped his CTA pass, passed through the turnstile, and waited impatiently by the side of the track, tapping his foot. Soon a train came, a great silver thing, which stopped and settled gently and opened its doors to release another crowd of late Friday night revelers. He stepped inside and took a seat in a corner. People packed in around him, even people older and less able-bodied than he, but that night he didn't care, he'd lost his guitar, his only ticket to the part of his livelihood he really loved. This seat was his tonight. The train rumbled, slid, rocked and bounced along, the crowd around him ebbing and flowing as they stopped and went. The aroma peculiar to the El filled his nose, the sounds of people talking and playing music obnoxiously loudly on their mobile phones melded with the cool male voice that said, over and over, "welcome aboard the CTA Brown Line. Merchandise Mart is next. This is a Brown Line train to Kimball. This is Armitage. Doors open on the right at Armitage. Soliciting and gambling are not permitted aboard CTA vehicles. This is a Brown Line train to Kimball. Welcome aboard the CTA Brown Line. Diversey is next..." Parker disembarked at Wellington, swiftly descending the stairs to the street level and turning right. He soon took another right turn into an alley, then up to a gate. He keyed it open, ascended 2 flights of rickety wooden stairs, then keyed open his apartment's back door. The sweet April breeze still filtered in through his open window, but it smelled sour to Parker. He entered his bedroom, took off his shirt and tossed it in a corner, lying down on his bed. He cradled his head in his hands, stretching his long, lean, muscular torso. He laid there and fumed, willing himself to fall asleep, muttering to himself. "Fuckin' guitar... the fuck am I gonna do?... that's what I fuckin' get... no good deed goes unpunished..." The Brown Line, barely two hundred feet from his apartment, thundered by. The music of the city. The last thing on Parkers face before he fell asleep, despite the troubles of the evening, was a smile. And, through the darkness and bursts of color, he remembered seeing, for a brief moment, a blaze of gold and a sparkle of green. Normally Parker liked his morning train ride, but this morning it was just too long. Normally he also would have enjoyed being able to sleep in until 10 to work a 12-to-4 shift, but after he'd woken up at 3 that morning he never got back to sleep for more than an hour. At 7 he gave up and got up, but nothing gave him solace. Not the 3-egg omelet with green onions, mushrooms and fontina cheese that he made himself for breakfast, not his warm shower with the cool morning breeze wafting in the open window that faced the alley, not Facebook, not Twitter, not CNN, not ESPN. Especially not music. Each recording he tried to play only made his hands feel emptier, drew more attention to the now-solitary guitar stand in the corner. Time dragged on. The train was nearly empty as the Brown Line glided south. The doors opened on the right at Harold Washington Library - La Salle and Van Buren. The people milled about, chatted, hawked roasted peanuts, hailed cabs, played music, swore. Parker walked north 100 feet, west 100, down 20 feet, and onto the Red Line, which bore him south. In 45 minutes, the doors opened on the left at 95th and Dan Ryan. He stepped off the train. 10 minutes' walk west and he arrived at the FedEx warehouse, towering, dirty. A sharp ding as he punched his time card. The smell of cardboard and sweat, the sound of shouts, clanks and machinery, the towers of boxes, resting, an interim on their journey. The minutes flowed like a dirge, sap in January. Lifting, scanning, conveyor belts, forklift beeps, long rips of tape guns, lifting, scanning... Thoughts, helter-skelter, kept him occupied, distracted from his menial work. Screams, the sharp smell of blood, dialectal slurs, the splintering, the snap of strings, flashes of gold, glimpses of green. The announcement passed through the waves of workers, and they broke from their tasks. Parker stepped outside, leaned against the wall, hand in pockets. Traffic zoomed by on the Dan Ryan, engines revving, tires zipping, horns honking here and there. Parker closed his eyes and listened. Sounds melded, patterns emerged, a rhythm fleshed itself out... "Hey," a voice said. Parker started, opened his deep brown eyes. A man, less tall, heavyset, auburn hair, stood next to Parker, cigarette in hand. "You awake?" "Hey, Ken," Parker murmured, shifting his feet. "Surly ass," Ken said with a short chuckle. He took a drag, blew it out. The cloud hung, suspended, dispersed. "Rough night?" "Rougher than most," Parker admitted. He sighed, then said, "can I bum a smoke?" Glittering Green, Glowing Gold Ken cocked an eyebrow, full face expressionless behind aviator sunglasses. "Thought you quit." "A year ago," Parker said. "Hm," Ken grumbled. "Real rough night." He pulled a half-empty pack, white with green "Marlboro." "Menthols okay?" "What the fuck," Parker said, reaching out and accepting a smoke. Ken flicked his lighter, a Zippo cut and enameled with the White Sox logo, held it out for Parker. Puff, puff, puff, a steady stream of smoke. Cooling in, cooling out, a gray cloud. They stood, watching the cloudy afternoon, hearing the traffic. "Gig went alright last night," Parker said, and he sighed. Ken betrayed no reaction, yet Parker continued. "Walkin' home...some girl bumped into me. Pretty little thing..." Parker trailed off, for a moment lost in green and gold. "Yeah?" Ken inquired, nonchalantly. "You hit that?" He took another drag, the smoke drifting lazily from his mouth. "Nah, guess you didn't, y'had a rough night and all." This last bit was quickly mumbled, more to himself than to Parker. "Nah," Parker said darkly, "but somebody tried to." There was a long silence in which the two men stood and smoked. "Yeah?" Ken said finally. Parker could tell Ken didn't know what he meant. "Yeah," Parker said. "Tried to rape her." Ken's cigarette froze, an inch from his lips. Eyebrows perked, barely coming above his aviators. "No shit," he said slowly, breathily. "You see it?" "Yeah," Parker answered, bitterly. "Fought him off. Stabbed him in the arm, broke his head on the wall. Big black dude." "Fuckin' kiddin' me," Ken exclaimed. "You saved this bitch?" "Yeah," Parker replied, unhappily. "Asshole cop wouldn't tell me where they were taking her... she could be dead, all I know. He fucked her up pretty good. Lotta blood in her hair." There was another pause; one drag for each man. "And the fucker broke my guitar." "Shiiiiit," Ken said, trailing off. "Broke it bad?" "Shattered it," Parker spat. "Shoved me against a wall, it was slung over my back. Neck snapped, body splintered. I heard each string snap." He hung his head. "Man," Ken said. "Fuckin' sucks." He took another drag while Parker was silent. "Still," he said, "makes you kind of a hero, right?" Parker snorted. "Yeah," he said, a bitter laugh, "s'what I get, right?" A voice from inside. In unison the men flicked their spent cigarettes away. They hit the ground, bursting gold like a Navy Pier sky. "Still on for ball after work?" Ken asked as they parted ways. "Yeah," Parker called. "Thanks for the smoke." Then after a moment, "Your lighter still sucks!" "Fuck the Cubs!" Ken yelled. Parker laughed. A swish, a ping, a thump, a grunt, rustling, another swish, three thumps, sliding across asphalt, a loud thud, a metallic, swishing ring. Parker bent over, his hands on his knees. His cut arms and strong chest glistened with sweat; sweat dripped off his face. Ken paced next to him, hands on his hips. "Damn," Ken said, panting. Parker chuckled, stood up, stretched his long, nude torso. "Kickin' your ass always makes me feel better." Ken was silent, save for his panting. "Aight," he said. "But next time your mine." "You said that last time," Parker said quietly. "Whatever, man," Ken said, "my turf next time. Hate comin' all the way up to the north side." "We'd both rather play in Lincoln Park than in that piece of shit Carver," Parker rebutted. "Sure," Ken said, approaching Parker and clasping his hand in his. "But in Carver Park, your ass is mine." "See you Monday, Ken," Parker said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Yeah, see ya," Ken said, walking away, his basketball under his arm. Parker pulled his shirt back on, not bothering to do the buttons. The soft fabric hugged his abs as a breeze blew. Parker felt better, the memory of the previous night still as sharp but present less often. He walked home, east to Sheffield, north to Wellington, following the Brown Line. The neighborhood was beginning to bloom in the early spring. The dying golden sunlight illuminated the people, walking, dining outside, lounging. He walked into his apartment, the screen door banging to. He kicked off his shoes, padded quietly to the bathroom, taking off his clothes. He started the shower, left it cool, stepped in, let the stream bounce off his muscular body, run in rivulets down his tanned skin, over his sculpted abs. Shampoo in the hair. Soap all over his body, sliding, smooth, slick. Thoughts a jumble. His hand slid down over his abs to his waist, then below. As he washed himself, his thoughts were broken by golden hair, green eyes. His hand lingered, becoming more rhythmic in its motions. Suddenly he remembered what she'd been wearing: a yellow sundress, light and airy. Brown leather sandals. Why did he remember that? Her face was thin, smooth, pale. Her eyes were bright, dazzling green. Her hair was brilliant gold. Then he felt emptiness as he remembered the lonely guitar stand in his living room. He scowled, moved his hand, quickly rinsed off. He toweled himself dry, pulled on clothes, a white-and-blue striped button-down, left his apartment, went to the train stop. Running from his thoughts. This is a CTA Brown Line Train to the Loop. Doors open on the right at Lake and State. 10 minutes' walk east on Lake. 6:52, the Daily Grind. "Hey listen, Linda," Parker said, "I can't play tonight, I... there was an accident last night, my guitar's totally fucked." "Aw, sugar," Linda said, mixing a double-shot soy latte, "I'm sorry to hear that. Really, I am. But I can't pay you for your troubles unless you can play." Parker sighed. "I'm sorry, sugar," Linda said again. "You get yourself a new guitar and you'll have your gig back that very night, I promise." "Okay," Parker whispered. "Thanks, Linda. "'Course, sug," Linda said sweetly. "Anything for the road?" Parker paused a beat. "Got a smoke?" She shook her head. "That's alright," he said. He turned to leave. There. By the door. Jeans and a Roosevelt College hoodie tonight. A bright purple bruise highlighted her forehead above her right eye, but there she was, golden hair and emerald eyes and all. She bore a quiet smile. Expectant. Parker rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself. He walked toward the door, hands in pockets. Her smile followed him, but he kept his eyes downcast. Then, as he reached the door, he looked at her. Her smile, highlighting her thin, pale face, never wavered. He looked into her dazzling green eyes. He held her gaze for a second, two, five. Then he closed his eyes, uttering one of his small, almost inaudible laughs, and walked out the door. The smile slid almost immediately off the girl's face. A moment of indecision, then she got quickly to her feet and followed him out the door. He had not gone far; he'd half expected her to follow. "Hey," she called, the same mezzo-soprano voice who had uttered a hasty apology the previous night. "You're not playing tonight?" Parker laughed again, louder this time, somewhat derisively. Her smile merely teased the corners of her mouth. He sighed. "Guess you wouldn't know," he said. Her head cocked two degrees to the right, questioning. He smiled, took a deep breath. "My guitar got destroyed," he said. He then turned to look at her. "Last night. In the alley." A look of horror dawned on the girl's face. "Oh, God," she whispered, "I'm so sorry, I-" "Nobody's fault but mine," Parker said softly, then turned to walk again. Tentatively, she followed. "Still," she said, falling into stride with him, "that's not a little thing. God. I'm just glad you're alright." Parker froze in his tracks, wheeled around to face the girl. "I'm alright?" he echoed, his voice rising. "You're the one who was closer to not being alright." "But I am," she said softly, and the rising torrent in Parker's voice was staunched. "A little bruised," she said, raising her arms in front of her; for the first time Parker noticed that her forearms were also lined with long, thin bruises, tattoos of her attacker's fingers. "But okay. Thanks to you." She lowered her arms, looked up at him, resumed her small smile. Parker was silent. He sighed again. "Well," he said, "I can honestly say I'm glad for that." He shifted, putting his hands back in his pockets. "I, uh...wanted to go to the hospital last night, make sure you were okay. That holstein of a cop wouldn't tell me where they were taking you." "St. James," she said. "That's okay, I wasn't there long. I guess there was a lot of blood, but I didn't hit my head that hard. Mostly my face." She gestured to the contusion that framed her eye. She smiled. "They let me go this morning." Her expression darkened. "The other guy...he's still unconscious. Said he might be in a coma for a while." "Deserves it," Parker said, then caught himself and said no more. There was a pregnant pause between the two. Parker caught those glimmering eyes for a moment more. Her eyes were wide, attending. "So," he said finally, looking away. "So I don't have to repeat myself tonight, I figure I should walk you home." She hesitated, her smile fading. "Sure it's not too far out of the way?" she asked. "I live just off of Harrison, in Little Italy." "Yeah, that's no problem," Parker said, "just a few Blue Line stops out of the Loop, right?" He set off walking. Almost surprised by the immediacy of his departure, she scrambled to catch up. "We can get on at Clark and Lake." "That's right," she said quietly. There was little more exchange between the two as they walked five blocks west to the subway stop at Clark and Lake. The eastbound Blue Line train creaked and clattered down the Forest Park branch, the cars full but not suffocating. They sat together in mostly silence, stealing furtive glances at one another. Parker leaned back in his seat and watched out the window, even though there was nothing to see but subterranean walls. The girl looked at him but tried not to stare. His deep brown hair was long enough to cast a curtain of bangs in his deep brown eyes. He was tall and thin, his soft blue button-down shirt hugging his muscular arms, revealing teasing glances of his cut chest. Parker allowed himself a small smile. He could see her reflected in the window and watched her look at him. She was beautiful, slender but not wanting for curves. She kept on her hooded sweatshirt, the red standard of Roosevelt College falling in a graceful double arc across her breasts. The corners of her thin, pink lips were teased upward by that tiny smile she wore. And, of course, her hair fell just past her shoulders and shimmered golden blonde even in the low, artificial subway light, and her eyes glittered emerald green as she gazed at him. He looked toward her out of the corner of his eye, and she immediately cast her eyes down. He looked down too, smiling. Gotchya. "So," he began, "what's your name?" "Diana," she almost whispered. "Diana Burton." "Diana," Parker imitated in almost as low a voice. He mouthed the name silently, letting the three syllables weigh on his tongue. "It's a beautiful name." "Thank you," Diana replied, almost inaudible. Parker looked up at her, not raising his head. "Diana," he said again, "the Roman goddess of the moon... and the hunt." Diana smiled, subdued. "That's right," she said. "Hm," Parker hummed, smiling and looking away. After a moment, he added, "Didn't Diana swear off men for all eternity?" This made Diana laugh. "Yes," she said, casting her eyes back down, "I suppose she did." There was a pause, then she said, "I guess I'm not much like my namesake at all." She looked up at him. Parker looked back. Their eyes met, for more than a brief instant this time. If it had not been for a particularly loud squeal of the brakes on the rail at that moment, he may have shivered. He smiled, looked away. They were again silent. The doors opened on the left at Racine. They walked south five blocks, then turned and walked west another block and a half. There were food carts lining the street doing a roaring trade, but the sun was beginning to set and many of the shops were closing up. Parker followed Diana at a step and a half, strolling with his hands in his pockets. Still very little conversation passed between them. Soon Diana turned left and keyed open a gate. "I live on the first floor," Diana said, gesturing toward a door to her right and adding, "right here." "Okay then," Parker said, "good." There was another silence as they stood two paces apart, looking at each other, then the ground, then the sky, then each other again. "So, um..." Parker began hesitantly. "Come in for a second," Diana said suddenly, as if coming out of a reverie. She turned and put her key in the lock, turned it. "O-okay," Parker stammered, surprised. Slowly, tentatively, he stepped to follow her. She looked back at him and laughed gently. "I want to show you something," she said, opening the door and stepping in. Parker followed, hesitantly. Diana closed the door behind Parker, then turned and walked down a short corridor. "Have a seat," she called to him, "I'll be just a minute." "Alright..." Parker muttered, more to himself than to her. He looked around. He stood in her kitchen, black and white tile with old wooden cupboards. He sat at her kitchen table on a black painted wooden chair. There was a rustling from down the hall, then a soft padding as Diana returned. She was now barefoot and had removed her sweatshirt, revealing a pink tank top. Her curves were now even more pronounced, her flat belly forming a deeply sloping line with her round breasts. Parker was distracted from his, however, by what she held in her hands. Quite distracted. In fact, his jaw hung slack in disbelief, and his eyes were wide. Giggling at his reaction, Diana pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Parker slid his chair so that the table was no longer between them. "That's-" he began. "1987 Ovation," she said, handing him the guitar. Parker took it, gingerly, as if it were made of glass. The body was thin and round, several small tone holes dotting its face in a symmetrical pattern. It had a blue-green glaze, the color of the waves that lapped Lake Michigan's shores. He ran his fingertips along the body, smoothly, gently. They left faint trails in the dust. He turned his head to better regard the neck. It was thin, graceful, swooping out beautifully to an ornate top piece. "Is that...?" he asked, looking closely at the fingerboard glistening jet black beneath the strings. "Ebony," Diana said, smiling at Parker's wonder. "Wow," Parker whispered, running his fingers over all parts of the guitar. "I'm glad you like it," Diana said. "It was my father's." "Your father's?" Parker asked, looking up at her. "Does he play?" "Yes," Diana began slowly. "Well... he did, he, uh... he died about three years ago. Christmas of my freshman year at Roosevelt." "Oh," Parker said softly, looking away. "I'm sorry." "It's okay," Diana whispered. "He was really healthy too, but I guess heart attacks can sneak up on anybody." "Hm," Parker intoned. "I understand, uh... I lost my dad too, about a year ago." "I know," Diana said, and Parker looked at her, surprised. She caught herself. "That's my favorite song of yours," she said, just above a whisper. Parker smiled. "You, uh," he said, "you come hear me often?" "Three or four times now," Diana admitted. She smiled sheepishly. "The first time was by accident, but... I mean, the coffee's good." She smiled at him. Parker smiled too: the joke had not been lost on him. "D'you... mind if I try it?" he asked. "Of course not," Diana said, still smiling. Parker nodded, raised his hand to the fingerboard, let his fingers alight on the strings, and strummed a chord. It was jarring, ugly, out of tune. He jumped as if in surprise, and they both burst out laughing. "Let me fix that," he said, and he began twisting each of the pegs at the top of the instrument, plucking each string softly. "It'll probably need new strings," Diana said, "it's been sitting in my closet for a while." Parker plucked, twisted, plucked, and twisted just once more, uttered "there," then played the chord again. A couple of the strings buzzed unpleasantly but the chord was much more in tune. He smiled, she smiled. He looked back at the guitar and began to play, fingers plucking lightly, left hand dancing across the fingerboard, the sounds soft and mellow, warm and smooth. They seemed to wrap around Diana, caressing her skin. Parker played his last chord, a sweet chord with a color tone that never resolved, and Diana betrayed a small shiver. He smiled, seeing goosebumps all the way up her bare arms. He signed contentedly. "Thanks for that," he said, laughing lightly. "Thank you," Diana said, then she smiled brightly. Parker requited her smile, then made to hand the guitar back to her. She did not take it. Instead, she shook her head. "Keep it," she whispered. Parker withdrew his arm slightly, then cocked his head at her. "Uhh," he said, "what?" Diana laughed. "Keep it," she repeated, stronger this time. "It's not doing anybody any good here. Besides... my dad would have loved your playing." She smiled softly. "I think he'd want you to have it." Parker attempted to form words, but nothing coherent settled on his tongue. His hand began to tremble slightly. "Diana," he said finally. "I... this is the most beautiful guitar I've ever seen. Are you... do you... really?" Diana laughed again. "Yes," she said with emphasis, "please. Keep it." Parker held the guitar out in front of him, regarding the gentle curves with adoring eyes. "I..." he began. "I don't even..." He set the guitar gently on the kitchen table, then, suddenly, threw himself at Diana and wrapped her tightly in his arms. "Thank you," he said with fervor. "I cannot thank you enough." Recovering from her surprise, Diana embraced him back. "I can't thank you enough," she whispered, and then broke apart. She smiled, and Parker noticed once again the purple bruise that blossomed around her eye. "You did save me, after all. I wanted to do something to thank you." She smiled. Parker smiled even bigger, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is... this is incredible." Diana giggled. "Here," she said, rising, "I think I have a soft case for it, for the trip home." She turned and padded her way back down the hall to her room, returning with a faded, dusty black cordura gig bag. "Perfect," Parker said, taking it from her. With trembling hands he lowered the guitar into the bag, zipping it up and slinging it over his back. They looked at each other once more. Wordlessly, all thanks being given, Parker hugged her once again. He relished the way the curve of her breast pressed into his chest as they embraced. They broke apart, smiled at each other for another moment. "Will I see you again?" Parker asked, somewhat surprised by his own boldness. "Are you playing again tomorrow night?" Diana asked. He nodded. "Then you'll see me again." They stood staring at each other, the moments stretching on. Finally, Parker placed a hand on each of Diana's shoulders. "I'll see you then," he whispered, and slowly, deliberately, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. He smiled brightly, turned, whispered "goodnight," and left Diana's apartment. She was nearly dizzy with happiness as she stood swooning in the kitchen, then half-walked, half-danced back down the hallway into her room, collapsing on her bed with a sigh. He was nearly dizzy with happiness as he left through the gate, walked the six and a half blocks back to the Racine stop, rode the eastbound Blue Line train back to the Loop, transferred to a Brown Line train at Clark and Lake, rode this train north, disembarked at Wellington, and eventually found his way back into his apartment. He pulled the gorgeous instrument from its case, picked up his stand, moved it into his room, and put the guitar on it. It shone at him in the light from his lamp. He lay back in his bed, letting the events of the evening wash over him. He could not remember being given a better gift by anyone. Let alone someone so beautiful. The golden hair, the emerald eyes, the way her tank top traced the curves of her body... the way her breasts had pressed into him as they'd embraced.... Glittering Green, Glowing Gold Diana couldn't remember when she'd met a sweeter guy. He had actually fought off a rapist to save her, and he didn't want to take the guitar? She smiled to herself. She couldn't wait to hear him play it... or to see him again. To see those deep, deep brown eyes, that strong chin, the strong arms and muscular chest, teasing her with just one more button undone.... Her hands ran along her body. Gently she caressed her breasts, gave each one a squeeze. She teased her nipples, which had already begun to poke up through the fabric. With one hand her fingers teased a nipple, and the other slid along her gentle curves, eventually coming to rest between her legs.... Parker arched his back, stretching, as his hand fondled the lump that was growing beneath his jeans. He undid his belt, slid the jeans off, and began to work at his growing erection, gently squeezing and stroking with all five fingers. Diana had removed her jeans and she was ever so gently stroking herself in a particular spot. Sensation began to course steadily through her as her motions became more rhythmic. She closed her eyes. There she saw him, shirt removed, muscles gleaming, as he wrapped those big arms around her.... His hand stroked up and down his cock, which he had pulled out of his boxers as he rose to his full eight inches. Images steadily passed before his mind's eye: her round, perky breasts, the way her jeans hugged her ass, the way her eyes smiled with her mouth and seemed to draw him in.... She slipped a hand inside her panties, which had begun to soak through. With two fingers she began to massage her clitoris, gentle, rhythmic, her juices making her fingers slide, wet and slick, over her flesh. She saw him, felt him hold her near, felt the pressure of his body as he lay down on top of her. Her hips rose into the air.... He saw her in the yellow sundress she'd been wearing that fateful night. Her breasts, round and beautiful, were visible from above. She beckoned him closer, lay down, raised the dress to reveal bare flesh, no underwear. His motions quickened.... She slipped her middle finger inside herself, thrusting more and more quickly. She began to utter soft moans as the man in her vision held himself over her with his strong arms, thrusting into her with the same rhythm as her hand. She held her breath.... His hand moved its ministrations from the shaft of his dick to the head, the strokes becoming shorter and quicker. The young woman in his vision spread her legs, revealing a slick, pink, tight pussy. He imagined himself sliding inside of her. His breathing quickened.... Rational thought began to disappear as she felt her climax building.... He could think of nothing else as sweet fire accumulated inside him.... "Parker," she whispered.... "Diana," he whispered.... They climaxed, together, miles apart. She continued to finger herself as the wave fell, hearing the wet schick-schick-schick sound and her finger slid in and out, in and out. He continued stroking, his penis now inside his boxers to catch his seed, grunting softly. They slowed, they stopped, their heads fell back, they panted as the afterglow swept over them. They sighed. They smiled. They fell asleep. The rumble of the northbound Brown Line train woke Parker. He tried to recall his dream. It had been the most pleasant of dreams. Like dreams do, though, this one disappeared quickly, as water through one's fingers, leaving naught but flashes of green and glimmers of gold. He opened his eyes. It was still dark. What the fuck? He looked at his clock: 6:09am. That must have been the first train of the morning. He settled in and closed his eyes, but found that he was far more awake than perhaps he ought to be. He sat upright. He felt awesome, wide awake. He saw his guitar and his heart lifted, then lifted again as he remembered the night before. He stood, stretched, pulled a pair of pants on. He grabbed his keys and stepped into his shoes, leaving his apartment and venturing into the still-dark morning. He guessed it was about quarter after 6, which gave him about an hour before the sun really started to rise. He walked down Wellington the short way to Sheffield and turned left. He strolled down the sleepy street, almost silent except for the rumble of the train in the distance. Residences and storefronts were dark, shadowy in the deep blue. A chill breeze wrapped around him as he reached Fullerton and turned left, heading west. He passed more dark stores and restaurants, and the early morning breeze rustled the leaves in the trees in front of the houses. Like this he walked for about 45 more minutes, savoring the cold, sweet touch of the April morning air. The buildings began to grow taller, then suddenly there was a park to his left. He walked under an overpass, then over a bridge. He turned to look south over the Chicago River. His breath caught in his chest. This truly was the best view of downtown. The sky had turned from deepest blue to a soft, velvety navy. Some straggling clouds clung to the tops of the buildings, some of the taller ones like the Sears Tower appearing to stretch endlessly, endlessly upward. There was nary a soul around; from time to time a solitary car would drive by on the nearby thoroughfare, but this was a rare occurrence. Parker sighed to himself, smiling. This was a spectacular view, but not the one he had come for. He turned left and continued to walk. Suddenly there it was, spread out before him like a silver-blue mantle. Soft, silvery mist still clung to the waves as the lake rolled out to meet the horizon. Right at the meeting place of water and sky a soft orange glow had just begun to emerge. Parker sat on a low wall and gazed, his eyes wide, absorbing the spectacle. The only sound was the waves as they lapped softly, insistently against the shore. The sharp smell of the water filled Parker's lungs in a deep sigh, and the cool air chilled him inside and out. He felt himself smile, softly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, selected an application, and began to speak. "Water," he said, "soft. Blue, silver. Cool, sweet, filling, satisfying. Moving, changing, brighter, darker, deep and resolved. Calm." He sighed. "Diana," he whispered. "Soft. Green, gold. Cool, sweet, filling, satisfying." He smiled. "Beautiful, strong, deep." He suddenly felt a great emptiness in the space next to him. Just then the sun breached the horizon, casting a great gold ribbon across the water. The clouds swirled with pinks and oranges and reds and yellows, then began to dissipate as the sky warmed from navy to azure. Parker gazed at the colors, mouthing words quietly to himself. In the air next to him, his left hand was moving, fingers shifting, forming chords and melodies on invisible strings. The sun tracked its entire journey across the blue arc of the sky while the Second City bustled beneath it. Minutes turned into hours, hours blew by like the omnipresent wind. Soon it was quarter to 7 in the evening, and Parker strolled up to the Daily Grind, guitar across his back. He entered and sidled up to the bar, ordered a green tea latte. Linda nodded and smiled at him. He looked up at the stage. A poetry slam was occurring, and the girl at the microphone was very familiar. Diana's golden tresses bounced with her gesticulations as she spoke with intensity, ferocity. Her eyes were closed, so absorbed in her craft was she. ...Dark hands, clawing, grabbing, tightening, feeling, Trapping me, slapping me, touching me In places forbidden, dark, off-limits, homey. Suddenly my minutes are numbered, you shake me, hit me, Wanting my body, wanting your body In my body, To take it by force. Take it! Why don't you take it? It's not yours, but take it, you want it, Your reasons dark and lustful, Dark and lustful like your hands. Here she paused, took a deep breath, opened her eyes. Her glittering green ones locked onto Parker's endlessly deep brown ones. She smiled softly. Soft hands, they hit hard, Sacrificing love and blood to save me. Wood splinters, steel snaps, Heart breaks, But there you are, hands bloody with vengeance. I can't see you, but if not for you I'll never see anything again. Hands, not dark, soft, Can they cradle like they can slug? Show me, hold me in those saving hands, Light hands, soft hands. Over the last few lines Diana had gotten softer until she was almost whispering, her lips brushing the microphone, her eyes closed. Silence hung in the room until she opened her eyes and stepped back, smiling when applause broke out. She left the stage, still smiling demurely, as Linda took the stage. "Thank you Diana," she said as the applause backed away, "and thank you to everyone who participated in or came out to see tonight's Spoken Word Slam. In about ten minutes we'll have Parker Herzlich, rejoining us with his new guitar. Take a break, buy more drinks, we'll be back about ten." The crowd began to mill, conversation rumbling about like a distant train. Diana sidled up next to Parker at the bar. Parker regarded her. She wore a beautiful knee-length cotton dress in a deep green that beautifully complemented her shining eyes. "Fancy seeing you here," Diana said, nudging him playfully with her shoulder. "Yeah," Parker said lightly, "it's good to be back. You're some spoken word artist, that was awesome." Diana giggled. "I mostly do poetry," she told him. "I'm a creative writing major at Roosevelt. But I'm also head of the spoken word club at Roosevelt." She smiled. "It's fun. And what happened the other night was so... violent, so raw... I thought that would be a better medium." "I think you were right," Parker said. "Okay, I'd better tune up." He smiled at Diana. "Okay," Diana whispered, looking coyly up at Parker and smiling. Parker slung his guitar off of his back and took his place on the stool that had been set up for him on the stage. The body of the guitar shone, a glistening green, freshly polished, brand new strings. He strummed each of these strings lightly, listening, twisting pegs this way and that, until he was satisfied. He played and sang his hour-long set with fervor he had not felt in what felt like ages. The up-tempo songs were rhythmic and dancing, the slower songs were heart-wrenching and gorgeous, the lyrics shone with a veritable light, his voice was smooth and deep and lovely. Many times he looked up and locked eyes with Diana, who sat watching him raptly, eyes wide. She watched his hands moving, fingers dancing, she watched his mouth as he sang, she watched his eyes as they would stay with hers, longing, searching. The last chord of his last song rang into the air as it had that night, even more brilliant and shimmering. There was applause. Parker smiled, thanked them, shouldered his guitar, and moved toward the only person he wanted to see. Their eyes met, brown and green, and she held a hand out to him. He took it. His fingers slid between hers, her skin soft and smooth and cool to the touch. "Walk me home?" Diana asked, gazing into his eyes, a small smile on her lips. She squeezed his hand, gently. Parker smiled his cool, confident smile. "'Course," he said. Four blocks west, one block south, a twenty five-minute westbound Blue Line ride, five blocks south, one block west, and Parker's hand never left Diana's. There was much squeezing, caressing, a multitude of touches between two hands. In what seemed like the blink of an eye they stood together in her kitchen, Parker's shimmering green guitar lying once again on her kitchen table. They stood, gazing at each other intently, as if trying to absorb one another. Despite each one's prowess for using words, no words were necessary. He stepped towards her, his hands wrapped around her waist. He bent his head, she rose up slightly on her toes, brown eyes closed, green eyes closed, and they kissed. One kiss turned into two, which turned into five, into ten, until the count was lost. Parker's touch was firm but gentle, holding Diana's body against his but stroking her skin with the lightest touch. His kisses were deep, thorough, strong but not suffocating. He ran his fingers through her shoulder-length, golden hair. She reveled in his touch, goosebumps rising along every inch of her skin. His strong arms cradled her as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head closer to hers. His hands began to move, slowly, feeling with every inch of palm and fingers. Along her slender neck, across her shoulders, down her back, achingly slow. He cupped her face in his left as his right began to sink, resting on her hip. Then he moved it, letting it alight gently on the curve of her ass. She gasped through her nose, but she squeezed him, holding him to her as they kissed, making it abundantly clear that he was not to stop. His hand was gentle, caressing, lightly squeezing, subtly pulling her hips toward his. Her arms unraveled themselves from around his neck, she laid her hands flat on his chest. She moved her hands slowly, feeling deeply into the muscle. Her finger caught under the fabric between buttons and she felt his bare skin. In that moment they stopped kissing, preferring once again to gaze at each other. Their looks were intense, excited. Slowly, pain-stakingly, she moved her hands on his chest until her fingertips rested on his top button. Never moving her eyes from his, she undid the button. Parker's gaze softened and he smiled tenderly at her, then he kissed her gently on the forehead. He released, drew his head back, and they both smiled just as softly at each other. Then they kissed again, still passionately, and she began to undo each button of his shirt. Soon the shirt hung open on Parker's body and Diana began to kiss his chest, gently, gently. Parker savored the feeling, breathing deeply as her kisses rose to his neck line, fell to just beneath his pecs. He kissed her head gently as his hands both moved to her back. The right hand as it rose pulled the fabric of her dress upward a bit, but then it fell. His hands roamed along her back as she kissed his chest, eventually finding their way to her shoulders. He teased under the straps with his fingertips, then pulled them down over her shoulders. Diana stood back, shrugged her shoulders, and let the dress slide down over her body, falling in a pile around her ankles. Her feet bare since they'd entered her kitchen, she stepped out of it, toward him. A black silk bra, trimmed with just a bit of lace, cupped her round, grapefruit-sized breasts, and below a matching pair of panties ran between her legs, around her waist, covering her round, soft buttocks. Parker reached behind him, pulled the sleeves down, and tossed his own shirt on top of her dress. She stepped toward him again, their eyes locked once more, and he put his hands on her upper arms, feeling the soft, smooth, fair skin, up and down. She came close again and once more began to kiss his chest. As she did so, her hands began to fumble with his belt. In a moment it was loose, and in another moment his jeans had slid down his legs. He stepped out of them, now clad in just a deep green pair of boxers. In the front was a very distinct lump, growing ever larger. They began to kiss again, still with the deep, searching fervor. Diana's hands found this lump, and they began to feel it, stroke it, caress it, squeeze it gently, while Parker's hands did the same thing to her ass. Separately, each moved by its own stimulation, both of their hips began to gyrate, slowly, gently. Their kisses became faster, and Parker tasted the sweetness of Diana's tongue darting into his mouth. He chased it with his own, sending his tongue deep into her mouth and feeling all of the surfaces within. Soon his hands left her butt and found their way to her hips, creeping their slow way up her deeply curving sides until they came to rest on the round of her breasts. She stepped back slightly to allow him better access, laying her head back as he fondled her. They were soft, supple, perky, and just bigger than what would fit comfortably in his hand. These he squeezed a bit harder, using all ten of his fingers, and this elicited the first quiet moans from her throat. They stood there together in the kitchen and she allowed him to do this for a rather extended period of time. For a while he felt them through the soft black silk, then he reached around her and undid the hooks, let the garment fall to the floor, and recommenced his ministrations on bare skin, feeling the warm flesh, teasing her erect nipples with his fingertips. This ended when Diana once again opened her eyes, looked at Parker, and smiled. She grabbed his wrists, turned him and pushed him, prompting him into the chair. She then dropped to her knees in front him and, hooking her fingers under the waistline, pulled his boxers down his legs and off of his feet. There he sad, naked in the black wooden chair, his eight-inch penis fully erect. Smiling at Parker, Diana wrapped her hands around the large shaft and began to stroke, gently, rhythmically, up and down. Parker watched her do this with some interest: not only was the sensation sweet, smooth, inimitable, but her movements were so fluid and so calming that he could not take his eyes off her. Her fingers barely came together around his shaft as her hand continued to stroke. He reached toward her face and began stroking her cheek, ever so gently, and she had to pause a moment to close her eyes and lean her head against his hand, her smile soft and happy. A gentle kiss to the head of his cock, then another, then it disappeared inside her mouth. This elicited a sigh from Parker as he savored the warm, wet feeling of her mouth sliding up and down. As she moved she flicked her tongue in a gentle, quick, rhythmic way that Parker just adored. He ran his fingers through her hair as she closed her eyes, taking up to five of his eight inches at one time. After a time she raised her right hand and wrapped it around his shaft again, stroking in the same rhythm. Parker's hips began to move slightly, irregularly, twitching with his pleasure. He saw after a bit that her left hand was between her own legs, inside her underwear, making rhythmic motions of her own. "Hey," he said, gesturing toward her left side with his head, "you know I can do that for you right?" Diana giggled. "That's okay," she said, "I think I'm pretty much ready anyway." She smiled brightly at him as she stood. He watched her slender, curved body rise, stretch out, then she bent over and removed her underwear, sliding it down her brilliantly curved ass. She tossed them aside onto the pile of clothing still on the kitchen floor and stood before him, naked from head to toe, her bare body seeming to radiate with energy. "Shit," Parker breathed. "You are so damn beautiful." Diana blushed, the flush reaching all the way down to her upper chest. "I haven't heard that in a while," she said. She began to approach him and he felt a wonderful sort of anticipation building inside him. "I get hot a lot, sometimes sexy. Beautiful... almost never." "You're all of those things," Parker said, his voice musical. "Right now you radiate with beauty." Diana giggled again. "Right now," she said, coming right up to him and looping her arms around his neck again, her breasts in his face, "you radiate with desire." She smiled radiantly at him, mimicked his sweet gesture with a kiss on the forehead, then she swung her right leg over him. He brought his legs together to give her more support, his member pointing straight up. She straddled him fully now, her vagina slick, no pubic hair save for a golden strip running upward toward her stomach. He took his penis in his hand and positioned it for her as she lowered herself onto it. The head poked just between the lips, parting them, then, in a sudden motion, slid up inside her.