55. Run Rudolph Run #4
both halves of my heart shaking insane.
“Holy fucking shit,” I breathe out.
Teddy laughs as he climbs up the three steps in a black tuxedo, satin lapels, a single curl falling loose over his forehead, and he slides into the next verse—“—I’ll fight traffic, baby, don’t let me go…” a side-swipe across the polished wooden floor
with a silky, honeyed vibrato.
And I’m nothing.
I’m a puddle.
My brain’s empty.
I can look at nothing else.
Teddy Vale’s walking closer—
two dark theatres for eyes,
jawline cut by sharp wings of an angel—
and he takes
my fucking
hand.
“She says, you better not be late…”
he half-sings,
half-talks through my part.
Then croons the next line velvet—
“I’m-on-my-way, baby, please wait…”
I blink.
It’s still him.
Still touching my hand.
The one I use to masturbate.
“Oh… my… God…”
Because it’s all I have left.
Teddy grins crooked, all dark, sad-eyed poetry and heavy lashes. He lowers the mic, a moment of privacy from a few hundred people listening,
and leans in close,
his faint cologne haunting his shoulder.
“Well, damn,” his rasp traces the shell of my ear and he shakes his head once, laughing softly, the sound vibrating against my neck. “You’re very, very pretty.”
He pulls back an inch,
raising the mic to his mouth,
but changes his mind
when his eyes get caught up with mine.
He steals one more second,
dips back in again.
“Name’s Teddy, by the way.”
Just says it,
humbly
as if every organ in my body
hasn’t been lying in wait.
His smirk slants into the mic,
heat laced in his angel face,
as he drops right into the melody again,
dipping back into my line,
singing for me,
“The clock spells
“goodbye.
“I swear—
“if this girl leaves me I’ll die.”
I slowly raise the mic,
trying to fight my freeze—
“Countin’ on promises made.”
The crowd hollers when I finally sing.
Teddy’s palm hits his chest,
brows shooting up.
The reaction melts me.
I pinch myself
‘cause I must be dreaming.
But I feel it. So I’m not.
When he recovers,
we sing the lines back and forth.
He knows all the words. To my song.
“Countin’ on fate that she’ll stay…”
“It’s ten minutes ‘til—”
“An’ I’m sick with this ache,
“while ridin’ with ghosts
“on the
“subway…”
“The subway’s very humble of you,” I say,
breaking song momentarily.
He moves away from the mic to laugh.
“For you, I suffer.”
I fight back my blush
and turn to the guests,
gesturing to him—
“He says…
“in a ten thousand dollar tux…”
Laughter echoes over the piano.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“I’d’ve brought roses
“if I had enough time…”
“I’m losin’ my mind.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes
“to make you mine.”
“I’ll walk soon as midnight strikes.”
“Even the stars are liars tonight.”
“What if that was the last time
“I’ll ever see
“his face.”
“I’m makin’ a right—
“on the corner of 8th…”
“He’s gonna be late.”
“Wait five more minutes,
an’ I’ll give you my life.”
“Who knew that love was colder than snow.”
“Two more minutes,
“and I’ll never let go.”
“I turn to the street, and stare and stare.”
“I’m shovin’ past crowds—
“in Times Square.”
“With one second left, he’s nowhere.”
“Dear god, help me—I’m almost there.”
“Time’s run out.”
“Only two blocks away.”
“Can only blame myself.”
“Hear me callin’ your name?”
“Leavin’ right now…”
“Baby, turn back around.”
“All I have is myself.”
“Until I have your hand,
“your waist…
“your mouth…”
I pull back from the mic, staring at him.
“That escalated insanely fast.”
He adjusts his cuff slow, glancing sideways at me with a knockout smile. “I’m all about grand gestures.”
I start the last verse:
“You were this close—”
“to breaking my heart.”
“Sure, blame it on the city…”
“For trying to keep us apart.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You’re mine.”
“Almost died of frostbite.”
“Merry Christmas, baby…
“Now we have today, tomorrow,
“and the rest of our lives.”
And we finish together,
his voice catching mine by the waist:
“Merry Christmas, baby…”
“We have the rest of our lives.”
The piano fades.
The applause peaks.
But the room falls mute to me.
I’m standing, transfixed,
still gasping on third-degree shock,
staring at the side of Teddy’s face,
a poet in pressed slacks,
trapped between an old-time dream
and a catastrophic state of horniness.
Not my proudest autonomic response.
But ninety percent of my orgasms,
regardless of whether self-induced,
have been bound to his voice,
his face,
his name.
He’s the architect of my ache,
and I’m standing inches away,
my panties soaked.
He turns to look at me,
a lovesick-with-a-smirk in his eyes.
“You still breathin’ over there?”
I nod.
He nods.
“I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but…
“standin’ this close to you
“isn’t doin’ me any good.”
He steps back, palm against his chest,
and flashes me another quick grin.
But as I stand there, in a trance,
my heart slaps the smile off my face—
ANDREW, she screams.
My face falls.
I turn fast,
my eyes darting across the room
until they crash into him at the bar—
body deathly still,
stare loud as hell,
feeling farther away than he is.
He’s gone totally tectonic—
a hurricane of hurt and anger
frozen over by a shatterproof wall of ice.