Bedroom Acoustics

Inspired by the Muse B-side of the same name.

I wake to the sound of Marcél's guitar, his fingers gently strumming the thin strings, each flick precise and deliberate.
I gingerly open my eyes.
I can barely make out the bedside clock; it reads 2:35 am.

I don't move for fear of Marcél stopping his performance. So silent and frozen, I listen to him play.

It's a soothing sound. A refreshing sound.
Full of peace. Serenity.
It makes me feel whole. Makes me feel full. I already feel full.

Beneath the covers I quietly shift my naked body and bring my hands to cup my swollen belly.
Just one more month to go.
One more month before baby sounds fill this room.

I stopped wearing clothes at night because they were too hot. I was too hot because I couldn't sleep. And I couldn't sleep because I have a sack of organs, flesh and soul growing in my womb. My child. My treasure.

I close my eyes and listen to Marcél. Listen to the serenade.
Listen to my heart pound. God, the pounding is deafening.

I remember my heart pounding when I heard mom and dad yelling in the living room. Remember the pounding when the shots were fired and the pounding as their bodies hit the floor. First her, then him.

Pounding hearts, pounding floors, pounding doors.

The landlord pounding on the flimsy plastic barrier, yelling for his rent and always threatening to turn us out; he never does.

Maybe it's pity. Maybe it's apathy.

His yelling always drowns out the night, drowns out the sounds of the passing trains and the pimps collecting from their street walkers.

The last notes of Marcél's song die away. I hear him rise from the chair and gingerly lay the guitar across the seat. Then he quietly makes his way towards the bed, stripping as he goes.
Not quietly enough, though.

*creak*
*creak*

The floor makes the Money Creak. I wince involuntarily. Normally this summons the landlord to regale me with Shakespearean rants about Caesar's due. But not tonight. Now that Marcél's playing has ceased, I can hear the faint rumblings of hip-hop and pop below. Can't bug the tenants when you're entertaining the local mafioso.

*crreeeaakk*

I smile as the bed gives the Sex Creak. The night I brought Marcél home was the first time the bed ever creaked. The first time it had taken the weight of two people. The first time I begged my partner to stay. The first time I had sex in a bed.

Even when he's just climbing in beside me as he is now, the bed makes the Sex Creak. And every time it makes me smile. Makes me smile that we've created life in a place of death.

I involuntarily open my eyes as Marcél wraps his arms around my belly; the feeling of his bare skin is comforting. He gently kisses my neck and within minutes his breathing is a slow, deep, steady thing.

I cannot sleep, so I lie awake and in thought.

Time passes.

The party below fades.
The last train rumbles past, only one or two heads visible in the cars.
Even the street workers vanish from the background.

So in this rare moment when the trains have stopped, the pimps have given up for the night and the crickets are the only beings disturbing the peace, I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of Marcél's breathing.

The best sound of all in my life's symphony.
My bedroom acoustics.