Beneath The Skin(208)

I smile coyly, considering her question. Honestly, it’s something I’ve been juggling around in my mind all day. Why Clayton, indeed? Why is he the man for me? “I’ve always felt like there’s something dark and damaged about me,” I start off. “I don’t want to sound too self-deprecating, but after living a childhood in the shadow of my perfect sister Cece and the incomparable monolith of a shadow cast by my mother, I always felt like there was something wrong with me … or failed, or broken, or completely lacking. My life changed when I took the leap and came down here to Klangburg University. Clayton … He’s been misunderstood his whole life. He’s fought demons thanklessly. It’s not even about him being deaf, even if that’s a huge part of him. He doesn’t see it as a struggle, and neither do I. It’s just a quality about him, and a quality to be proud of, at that. He has brown eyes. He has brown hair. He has a laugh that lights me up, a smile that can kill, and he’s deaf. And he loves lighting up the world, and why shouldn’t he? There’s so much darkness in it. And whether I like to admit it or not, there’s darkness in me. He lights up my life.” I scoff at my own words suddenly, rolling my eyes to face Victoria. “Ugh, that was cheesy. Never let me say ‘He lights up my life’ again.”

But when my eyes meet Victoria’s, I don’t find her sharing in the cheesiness. Quite the opposite, I find her teary-eyed and touched, a hand drawn to her mouth. “Oh, Dessie,” she murmurs.

“What?” I blurt, concerned.

“You have to tell him that. All of that. That was so beautiful.” She sniffles, then wipes away a tear. “Shit, girl, you made me cry. Shit, fuck, damn. ‘Lights up my life’ … Lord, help me, if I ever found someone like that.” She wipes away another tear from the other eye, flicking it away.

“You will,” I assure her, taking her hand into mine and giving it a squeeze. “You will.”

“We’re getting you to the Throng in time. We’re getting you up on that stage.” She faces me importantly, her eyes shimmering with emotion. “And you’re singing him your song.”



CLAYTON



It’s two hours later that the lights suddenly dim, as if preparing for the show. I flinch because I wasn’t expecting it to start. Where’s Dessie? I look at my tablemates, concerned, but none of them seem to share my worries as they all focus up on the stage, which now bears the full brunt of the lights boldly shining.

And then Dessie appears. I melt at the sight of her. I love that woman so fucking much. She wears the red top I got her for her birthday, which flows and caresses her body in all the right places. Her hair cascades in tangles and waves around her shoulders, a coil or two resting on her beautiful breasts. Her face is angelic and smooth and beautiful. I want to toss the table over, rush up to her, and make love with her right there where she stands.

She eyes me importantly, then mouths the words, “I love you,” at me.

I hold up the sign right back at her—a fist with just the thumb, index finger, and pinky sticking out: I love you.

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, and then she starts to speak, and she signs at the same time so I know exactly what it is that she says: “Thank you so much for coming here tonight. I know I’m late. A particular errand I had to run put quite a wrinkle in my schedule today. Thank you for your patience. I have a song that I’ve written and prepared with the help of the band, as well as my good friend Sam, that I would like to share with you. It’s a deeply personal song. And …”

She stops, her eyes meeting mine again. She smiles, overcome with some sort of emotion that seems to boil up from within her, spilling over.

“And,” she resumes, both with her mouth and her hands, “I want to dedicate this to my boyfriend, my love, my one and only. It’s called, His Song Of Silence.”

Vibrations thrum through the room. I feel the work of a bass guitar, or perhaps the deep, bass notes on the piano. I feel the surge of music through the room and the effect it has on those at the table with me. Dessie rocks slowly to the music, dancing with the notes that swarm and flutter and push past her like a breeze.

Then she opens her eyes, presses her lips to the microphone, and she sings. Her hands join the dance, feeding me her beautiful lyrics in sign form.

And I listen.



A tree sings a song of leaves





Knows what it ought to do





Knows what it ought to be





A bird sings a song of homes





Where it ought to fly





Where its family roams