It’s a Friday night, and as we sit at our table in the restaurant, you shake your head oblivious to everything and pretend to play the piano. Drinking your single glass of beer that you’ll make last the entire meal, you’ve still got over half left but you’re already tipsy, and when you see me smiling at you, you stick out your tongue and go cross-eyed. What a little charmer you are. Reaching under the table, I stroke your leg and pinch the tights that cling to your flesh, and yet you’re so engrossed with this imaginary piano of yours that you hardly notice. Holding your knee, I close my eyes and see you before me with your legs wide open. You’re doing your thing, and I’m watching like a kid salivating in a candy store with a pocketful of dollars. Was this the other night, or the other year? I can’t seem to remember. The image of you in the nude and at one with your body and soul does something to how I perceive time. It warps everything and spits out the laws of spacetime as if they had no meaning, and perhaps they don’t. In fact, I know they don’t. They’re as meaningless as everything that exists outside of this bubble of us. Right now, I think you’re playing something by Elton John. You’re humming the tune all out of synch, but if I were to take a guess, it sounds like Crocodile Rock. I’ve opened my eyes again, and the curls of your hair are spilling across your face each time you turn your head from side to side so in the moment like you were actually playing the damn thing. The more I look at you, the harder I feel myself growing until this dirty ol’ seed of mine begins leaking from my cock. When we’re in bed, I always make sure to smear it over your nipples until they glisten like fresh snow beneath a new moon. Not sure why I do it. Something primal, no doubt, but it’s always beautiful, and it always feels right, and whenever those eyes of yours dilate at the sight of me doing my thing, everything feels as if it’s in its right place. Letting go of your knee, I finish the rest of my drink before leaning back and watching you as you continue to tap those imaginary keys so enthusiastically. You flew over the cuckoo’s nest long ago, and that’s why I love you.