Sweet Memories by Lavyrle Spencer

soft note sent a shudder up Theresa’s spine.
    Jeff sat on the edge of the davenport, leaning forward, elbows to knees, for one of those rare times when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands. He simply sat and paid homage. To the song. His friend. And a voice that turned Theresa’s nerve-endings to satin.
    She realized she had not heard Brian sing before. Not alone. Not ... not ....
    It was a song whose eloquent simplicity brought tears to her eyes and a knot to her throat, tremors to her stomach and goose bumps to the undersides of her thighs as she sat on the floor before him.
     
            My world is like a river
            As dark as it is deep.
            Night after night the past slips in
            And gathers all my sleep.
            My days are just an endless string
            Of emptiness to me.
            Filled only by the fleeting moments
            Of her memory.
            Sweet memories ...
            Sweet memories ...
     
    He hummed a compelling melody line at the end of the verse, and she watched his beautiful fingers, the tendons of his left thumb grown powerful from years of barring chords, the square-cut nails of his right hand plucking or strumming the steel strings.
    She watched his eyes, which had somehow come to rest on her own as the words of the last verse came somberly from his sensitive lips.
     
            She slipped into the darkness
            Of my dreams last night.
            Wandering from room to room
            She’s turning on each light.
            Her laughter spills like water
            From the river to the sea
            Lord, I’m swept away from sadness
            Clinging to her memory.
     
    The haunting notes of the chorus came again, and Theresa softly hummed in harmony.
     
            Sweet memories ...
            Sweet memories ...
     
    She had crossed her calves, hooked them with her forearms and drawn her knees up, raising her eyes to his. And as he looked deeply into the brown depths, grown limpid with emotion, Brian realized she was not some soulful groupie, gazing up in adulation. She was something more, much more. And as the song quietly ended, he realized he’d found the way to break down Theresa’s barriers.
    The room rang with silence.
    There were tears on Theresa’s face.
    Neither she nor Brian seemed to remember her brother was there beside them.
    “Who wrote it?” she asked in a reverent whisper.
    “Mickey Newbury.”
    She was stricken to think there existed a man named Mickey Newbury whose poignant music she had missed, whose words and melodies spoke to the soul and whispered to the heart.
    Since she could not thank the composer, she thanked the performer who had gifted her with an offering superseding any that could be found wrapped in gay ribbons beneath a Christmas tree.
    “Thank you, Brian.”
    He nodded and handed the Stella back to Jeff. But Jeff had quietly slipped from the room. Brian’s gaze returned to Theresa, still curled up at his feet. Her hair picked up the holiday colors from the lights behind her, and only the rim of her lips and nose was visible in the semi-darkened room.
    He slipped from the piano bench onto one knee, bracing the guitar on the carpet, his hand sliding down to curl around its neck. He could not make out the expression in her eyes, though he sensed the time was right ... for both of them. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and the scent he’d detected in the steamy bathroom seemed to drift from her skin and hair—a clean, fresh essence so different from the girls in smoky night spots. Bracing elbow to knee, he bent to touch her soft, unspoiled lips with his own. Her face was uplifted as their breaths mingled, then he heard her catch her own and hold it. The kiss was as innocent and uncomplicated as the Chopin Prelude, but the instant Brian withdrew, Theresa shyly inclined her head. He wanted a fuller kiss,