MUSE -ic CHPT. 3

male singer

The crickets were louder that night or it might have been because the power was out. Yayra had just stepped out of her tiny bathroom holding the very last candle she had left. It had been a long day. She set the candle up on her single-door wardrobe and stood before her full-length mirror, pulling the towel off her. She sighed; stretching out her arms above her head and rising to stand on her toes. She groaned from the pain that shot through her as her muscles stretched. She picked the liniment, sat back at the foot of her bed, directly opposite the mirror, and rubbed a potion into her thighs, wincing, her eyes tearing up. Her week had been a tiring routine of bumpy rides to the market at dawn and back at night, with dusty winds and long hours of waiting and praying someone will be in need of a new set of cookware.  She threw herself back on the bed and willed her body to relax; her breast spread out across her chest, almost touching her chin. Her hands moved up and grabbed them. Rolling her nipple between her fingers, she felt a familiar warmth flood the insides of her thighs and she moaned.  She had been married before, she had been pregnant before. God knew she had birthed a son…had barely weaned him when things changed. The flu that swept through their little town from neighboring ones had been brutal. She closed her eyes and listened to the crickets and the sound of her heavy breathing, allowing one hand to stray further down to her belly…to her warmth. She moaned. Two years! Two years since a man had touched her and she was not even 30 yet.


Then the sound drifted in….it was more soothing than the balm she had greased her naked body with – deep, rich, sensual. The voice rang out in the silent night. Her eyes flew open when the echo made her shudder. It was her new neighbor again. He was singing an unfamiliar solo that hit such low notes she sighed in spite of herself every time he hit them. The vibrations ran through her hair, caressing her face, tickling her heart. It was inviting, irresistible – a healing bass. She slipped on a night dress, ran a comb through her hair, grabbed her shawl n stepped out. She had caught him staring more times than once or twice. She was tired of being alone and his voice seemed as if it was calling on to her. It was a sad tune and she knew what sadness was. She was tired of it. She got to his door, took in a deep breath and knocked. He stopped singing. The door opened. He looked surprised, then pleased.

“Hi,” he said

And she knew she was stepping into a new beginning.




“Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.”

Percy Shelley




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