33 definitions.

I don’t turn on the air conditioning.

Through the summers a ceiling fan spins. Beer, kept ice cold and placed to skin when it’s more than I can bear.

When at home, there’s no need for me to be proper. I walk around in skivvies and tanktops, and even that seems like too much fabric.

I’m seasonal, as you may know. Things are dictated by the suns and winds. Music, liquor, and sometimes even lovers.

The cello stays in her case throughout most of the summer. She’s something of an autumn, a winter to me. Her sounds, try as one might, just doesn’t match the season, even if it comes close.

But lately, again, I find myself dreaming in music. A concotion of notes sweep through the dreamland, and if there are images that accompany, I don’t remember once I’ve opened my eyes.

Today, knowing that I was going to be the most alone that I have been in quite some time, I opened the case, and pulled her out. After a week of song in my dream soaked head, I decided to see if I could make the sounds synchronize.

I had already opened a summertime beer, and quickly it began to sweat. I had on a cotton tank top that buttoned along the side and hung loosely, except for around my breasts. My panties mimicked the pattern of my favorite swimsuit as a child. I opened the attic door, and first placed my beer on the step where I always sit when I play. Went back down to grab the wood that was soon to be between my legs, and the bow that causes immaculate vibrations.

And for a while, maybe an hour, maybe two, or maybe only ten minutes I plucked the notes from the dreams and made them come together. My fingers knew the equation before my brain caught up. My wrist didn’t forget, and my thighs pulsed from the sounds. She, the wooden Jezebel that she is, stuck to my skin that was wet with persperation, anticipation.

The last part, the one long and hard, I played over and over until it caused an ache that I needed to satisfy. It’s a breaking point when I go that far. It’s a do or die. A now or never. I have to. I have to.

I was nearly there, without doing a thing… but I couldn’t just sit. I threw the harlot down, without remorse, thinking to myself that you pay them to go away.

And so while holding the beer bottle that sweats between my breasts, I finished the lullaby.