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Great Writing - Home > Short S. > The Girl and Her Sax
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| The Girl and Her Sax | |
| By sam_duke | ||||||||||||
| 06 April 2007 | ||||||||||||
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A meatier piece hurriedly thrown together in a flash of giddy inspiration today, this time from the mind of a teenage boy. He gazed in through the thin pane of glass in the door, hiding himself, peeking in with only one eye, staring unblinking at the girl as she played to an empty room. It was late in the day. All the schoolboys had scuttled off home, and the staff were never far behind. There was hardly anyone to be seen in any of those tiny rooms on either side of the corridor all through the music block. There might have been someone pressing at whites on a piano or fiddling with a drum and a cymbal somewhere. But that boy, his brow damp from the heat of the day, his cheeks glistening with an unglamorous sheen and his clothes reeking with a scent he could not smell, had his mind transfixed. At the very end of the building, in the largest room of them all, the space where the choirs and the orchestras would practice of a lunchtime, the girl with her sax, her short schoolgirl’s skirt falling as far as her knees, her white shirt clasping tense to her frame, was the only soul around. All the classroom chairs were lined out before her, but she had no audience she could see. The day’s setting sun was shining from out the windows, and even though the blinds were lowered the room was still illumed with a gracious light. He peered through the glass, and watched intent as her wet, pink lips kissed the reed mouthpiece, her eyes closed and her golden hair fallen by her cheeks. He stared at the long fingers of her delicate hand caressing the shining brass of the instrument’s body, her tender breath drifting through the conic bore, her touch enough to make its insides groan and sigh. She held its body tight, clasping onto it as if it was too much for her to hold, its size too great for her youthfulness to take. Its metallic frame brushed against her clothed bosom as she played the right tune, the notes and the song that enlivened the chamber of its loins. All the while, that boy by the door watched and wondered. How did that girl learn her embouchure, and find the right place for her lips and her teeth to support? Did she spend her days practicing her fingering? Did she pass her nights all alone at home, her tongue and her lips and her jaw finding their right motion, her hands holding the metal tight, her fingers frenzied and feverish as she felt the vibration inspired by her every breath? Could she bring out her heart and soul just to make the hollow innards of the sax groan and growl? Suddenly her face began to redden and her knuckles turn white, as the pace and the power of her song increased and intensified. The noise became louder and faster, her touch harder and her eyes shut tighter. And at the very climax of the piece her touch and her kiss made the sax moan aloud a crescendo and howl as it reached the summit of its joy. And that boy by the door, the passions within him swelled and throbbed as the blood rushed and his heart flew whilst he watched every moment. And then she stopped. She played a final few bars, just to come down gently, just to let the sax find its breath once again, but she did no more. She took the reed from between her lips, and pushed the instrument away, as if both had had their fun and now they were done. The room was silent. Not a hum or a buzz was there to be heard, either on the outside or within. All that she could hear was the hardened breathing of her own chest. But still she smiled, and imagined an audience before her, all cheering and clapping in delight, their applause spewing forth, their praises gushing only to her, up there all alone on the stage. She took a gentle bow, the sax still hung around her neck with some leather attachment, as if it couldn’t bear to let her go. But that girl took it off, and turned to its case resting on a table behind. She lied it down in its bed, and then just closed it away. And that boy by the door just stared, and gulped.
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