Chapter 8

After the epic ‘puppy fuck’ I was pumped. I guess this was part of my Anger portion of dealing with a loss. I wasn’t taking them in order, but this was MY dealing with things, not some blog.

I got in the shower and rinsed off. I looked down and congratulated my dick for delivering a message. I usually didn’t talk to my dick much. In fact, never. Well, there was one time, 14 years ago. It was the first time I’d scored with the goddess. The second time was just tonight where I fucked her right off Mt. Olympus.

I got out of the shower and dried off with one of the ‘special,’ monogrammed towels that we never used. Does that even make sense? Having towels that you never used? Maybe she DID use them when she wanted to feel special. Like one of her special fucks with one of the guys she played around with ‘now and then.’

I was tempted to just throw it on the floor, but I didn’t. What would be the point of that?

I looked over at the bed and b-K was just in a fetal position under the covers. I couldn’t see if she was looking back or sleeping.

I dressed again. Dark green underwear, then the ‘clirty’ jeans I’d worn yesterday. You know, ‘clirty’ – partially clean, partially dirty. Jeans were meant to be worn for a couple of days, right? Then another of the pull-on shirts with a crocodile on the breast. This one was cream colored. Or maybe it was ecru. Who cared? I never wore them in the years before the ‘fuck you’ talk. A more positive way to think of it would be as before uh-Crystal threw one at me.

It was only 7:00 and I was not ready to go to bed. Barefoot, I walked to the kitchen, and scrambled myself some eggs. I felt good enough about my culinary skills to add some cheese to the pan. Toast was not beyond my skill level either.

After cleaning up, I retreated to my office. I slipped on my new shoes and left to go upstairs to see Luddy and Gladys. I took my Liszt, the Chopin, and added the Symphony pages at the last minute. It was 7:33 when I pushed the doorbell on #510. Gladys did the peephole check to make sure I wasn’t a masher, and then she opened the door.

“I hope it’s not too late,” I apologized.

“Oh, not at all,” Gladys said. Then over her shoulder to Luddy, “It’s Mark!”

“Good, that will give me an excuse to end this Scrabble game,” came the answer from the living room.

Gladys whispered, “I was a librarian and I can whip the pants off her.” She tittered at her naughty words.

Following her into the room, I plunked my music down. “What’s that?” Ludmilla Resnikova asked, looking at the disheveled pile of computer printouts.

“Something I found on-line. Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3. Do you know it? He was a Polish composer, and published it in 1976.”

“Gorecki?” Ludmilla said. “I thought I knew every Polish composer.” She said, gathering up the computer printed pages. “Symphony of Sorrowful Songs.” She said almost under her breath. She took a couple of minutes to read through the Polish lyrics.

“Oh, my. So much sorry is she singing about.” She took a few more minutes to hum the soprano part.

“This is very difficult. Simple melody yet complex accompaniment. You can’t play all the voices: woodwinds, violins, cellos. The person who did the piano transcriptions made a perfect mishmash of the job.” Said the music teacher. “Can you play it? I mean, some of these chords in the left hand require more than the five fingers you were born with.”