Third Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2005)
Fiction
— First Place
Chrissy K. McVay lives in the mountains of Western North Carolina with her family and two golden retrievers. Her short stories have appeared in Aim Magazine, Fiction Primer and other publications.
Soloist
By Chrissy K. McVay
The lights are off by eight in the evening. I strain to hear each cry
and moan of the violin being played in the apartment next door. I've seen
the soloist perform with the orchestra at the Metro. He grips the violin
bow with the concentration of a skilled surgeon, one that would know the
placement of vital organs with his eyes closed.
I often have the pleasure of listening to him play while I'm alone, my ear next to the wall that separates my bedroom from his dining room. I haven't a hint of shame as I thrust a hand between my thighs and pretend the strong fingers touching his bow actually tap a rhythm across me while I twist and groan. These lustful escapades are hardly foreign to my body. I experimented with similar fantasies in the sixties, a time when morality hid beneath the guise of freedom.
The talented musician is much younger than me. He'll never notice how devoutly I worship him, but I'm used to being ignored. Funny how people take me for an old bore when just thirty years ago I was riding on the back of a Harley, proudly displaying a tattoo of a black panther across my small breasts and swapping sex partners with members of the Dakota Devils. I used to strip in a room full of strangers without flinching, take part in bar room fights that left shreds of another woman's bloodied hair mashed under my fingernails, and I still recall the pungent taste of raw road kill I digested on a fifty-dollar dare. Any attempts at dignity now would be pure hypocrisy.
Sometimes I follow the soloist. My neighbors catch me now and then, but no one has the guts to call a graying, plump woman who works mornings at Dee's Dakota Doughnuts a stalker.
At night I peep in his windows to catch glimpses of his life between the bright red curtains shielding his bedroom's organized interior. The dresser and headboard carved from an expensive cherry wood bought at an auction designed for high bidders. The glossed furnishings with shiny veneer reflects the room in a wavy image, reminding me of how the liquid ooze in Lava Lights once zoned me out while smoking pot.
When thunderstorms pass through he doesn't practice. I sit in the darkness of the storm hoping to hear even a light cough. I go to bed soaking my pillow with tears, imagining I can feel the cords of his violin constricted from the lack of touch.
For the next week the summer nights are free of rain. A light wind drifts from a nearby Sioux reservation across the Black Hills, but the sound of the breeze isn't close enough to the lilt of music to satisfy me.
Soon the violin's European ballads drift into the night again and my fingers ache to touch the softness of a young man's body. I'm feeling brave as I tiptoe past the back patios and peek through his slightly parted bedroom curtains. There's no moon to spotlight where I'm hiding. I feel safe.
I've known for a long time that the soloist often plays in the nude, sitting on the edge of his bed, ignoring his manhood that dangles intrusively at his left thigh. Perhaps it doesn't matter to him, for he's moved beyond sex. I pretend he knows of my observations, but doesn't mind. Three candles bum on his nightstand. The flicker of light dances over different portions of his lean body, illuminating delectable doses one morsel at a time. I yank my baby blue stretch pants down past the folds of fat at my waist, moving my fingers freely to each note, imagining the soft areas I caress are still desirable.
The soloist switches to a fast tune pulsing with joy. I barely catch my breath as the first spasm hits followed by the trembling, grateful release that ripples from deep in my pelvis. My breasts seem firm again beneath my fingers and for a moment I toy with the idea that age wouldn't matter to an artist of his inner maturity.
But the exhilaration doesn't last. I simmer in denial and then dryly flatten out like the zombie drop after a great hit of acid. The realistic side of my brain reminds me that youth is intolerant with age. Not that I was ever attractive. Acne pitted my face during my teens and left peppery scars behind. Any assets I did possess in my twenties were abused with drugs, booze, and lack of sleep. I suppose one could say I've managed to soil myself inside and out, though I don't regret the wild times. I accepted my fate to fail, in no mood to disappoint mother's prophecy regarding my irresponsible choices.
The truth
is I've known love before, though maybe not this soulfully. I was once
married to a biker named Dutch. I was his "old lady" for twelve
blissful years. Dutch was a subtle side of ugly, with the type of body
that's more accommodating after prolonged exposure. He had a heart of
gold, though, was fairly intelligent, and satisfied me in bed. I quickly
forgave his distasteful features, and they made mine less obvious. His
friends called him the Flying Dutchman, since he sailed through highs
and drunken binges peacefully, not mean and angry like some people do.
Dutch was always smiling.
