Page 79 of Vicious Intentions
Raffaele’s messages usually come late, long after the house has gone quiet and the world has narrowed to the glow of my phone. But every once in a while, waiting until night falls feels unacceptable to him. As if he needed his fix during the day just to get by. Sometimes a quick text is enough. Other times, it’s a simple picture of what I’m doing or where I am. Still, most of the time, his texts are straight to the point about what he needs from me.
Rafe:Play for me.
Three words.
Three very simple words that hold a weight behind them, I don’t want to examine too closely.
Still, it’s this request that always catches my breath. Especially because Raffaele doesn’t want something practiced or rehearsed. He doesn’t want the classics like Beethoven or Mozart. He has no interest in early Romantic composers likeChopin or Schumann. What he wants to hear me play are my own compositions. The songs that I’ve given birth to. And if I don’t have a new song for him, then whatever is in my soul that day works just fine.
It’s on days like this, when I play for him, that I feel we’ve crossed some invisible line—one we’ll never be able to cross back over. As if whatever imaginary field we were circling around has shifted into something intimate. More intense. Something I don’t quite have a name for.
Yet those three words spur me on, my fingers already moving toward the piano, eager to give him whatever he needs from me today.
Somehow, I can always tell whether his request comes from a place where he needs something good to hold onto or whether he just needs something to do his shouting at the world for him.
Ever since we reconnected, Raffaele seems to exist in only these two states. The one who needs to be as close to me as he can, basking in a light that makes him feel more human. And the other, when his frustration and anger demand an outlet, and he has to unleash them onto the world before they consume him whole.
I set the phone against the side table next to the piano, angling it carefully before I can overthink it. The screen lights up as the video call connects. I’ve done this enough times that I don’t need to check what it shows. Raffaele will have a perfect view of my hands on the keys and nothing else.
My face always stays out of frame, and so far, Raffaele has never argued that he prefers it any other way. I’m glad for that small mercy. I’d be too embarrassed to play with my whole heart if I knew he was watching my face, seeing every emotion flicker across it as I play.
I settle onto the bench and let my fingers hover above the ivory for a moment, breathing in, steadying myself.
The room suddenly feels too quiet. As if waiting, like him, for me to start.
When I press the first key, the sound fills the space instantly, soft and deliberate. The melody comes easily, muscle memory guiding me where my thoughts can’t. Each note carries intention, hope threading through the opening bars, bright, careful, and honest.
I imagine his gaze fixed on the screen, watching the way my fingers move. The way they never hesitate and commit to every note.
Something as innocent as me playing piano for him shouldn’t feel this intimate—especially when he can’t even see my face—but it does. The distance between us collapses with every measured stroke of each key. It feels like I’m reaching across the vast distance between us and offering him a piece of myself.
The song deepens as I play. It slows into something almost erotic, and instead of running away from the feeling, I chase it. My hands linger where they didn’t before, pressing into the keys with a quiet ache that settles low in my belly. The melody bends, turns inward, and I wonder if he hears it too. He must have. If there is anyone who can listen to me play and decipher the meaning behind every sound, it’s him.
Sweat begins to bead down my temple as I let the song take over, its pull immediate and unmistakable. I let the song tell the story of two lovers, so enraptured with one another that the rest of the world just fades away with only a touch.
Even with nothing but my hands in view, the connection hums between us, taut as a drawn wire. I continue to paint a picture of unbridled passion, one stroke at a time. I suddenly imagine Raffaele’s hands at my waist, pulling me back against his broad, solid chest.
My breathing turns erratic as I rush the keys, faster and harder, until the music swells into a crescendo that nearly has me seeing stars. I don’t stop playing and give it everything I have. I let the melody take over, my fingers flying across the keys until there’s nothing left to hold back. When the final note fades, I’m panting as if I’d just run a mile, a wide smile stretching across my face, my cheeks flushed and warm.
I don’t wait for my heart to return to its normal rhythm. Instead, I reach for the phone, wanting to see Raffaele’s face. But rather than meeting the steel blue of his eyes or the boyish grin he used to give me, I find the most undeniably masculine hand I’ve ever seen, clenching over the fabric of his pants, just above his thigh. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his veins standing out along his fingers and the back of his hand, only for it to vanish a second later when he ends the call.
I blink once, then twice, trying to get my bearings after what just happened. It isn’t the first time he’s ended a video call so abruptly. In fact, most of our video calls end this way. I never get to see his face, and he never gets to see mine. I’ve long since stopped questioning the reason behind it.
Maybe he’s starting to realize what I’ve known for a while now. That our friendship has morphed into something else. Something that isn’t so innocent anymore. And maybe he’s keeping us from seeing each other because he doesn’t want us to confront the elephant in the room—for our relationship to survive, it needs to stay exactly as it is. Changing its dynamics would only lead to heartache.
Rafe:It was beautiful, Anna. Thank you.
I smile, even though a small part of me is sad that I didn’t get to see him today.
Me:You’re welcome.
Me:Talk to you later tonight?
Rafe:It’s Christmas Eve, sweetheart. Don’t you have midnight mass to attend?
My heart skips a beat at the endearment.
Me:I forgot. Tomorrow then?
