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As you pull up your pants, your mind’s eye flashes with a young post-show Brian playfully demanding, “get off my trousers! Fucking get out!” You smile as you remind yourself that “pants” hold a different meaning across the ocean.
“What are you smiling about?” Brian’s voice breaks your reverie. You look up to see him fully clothed and sitting on the sofa, lazily stirring a cup of tea. The speed and efficiency with which he has gotten ready reminds you that he’s done this “morning after” song and dance more than you can count.
The man from your idle thoughts sits before you, separated only by 40 years and unfathomable heartache and loss. You chuckle in an effort to push away the wistful nostalgia of a life not your own before replying in earnest. “You,” you answer simply. Your small pause allows to choose your words carefully while buttoning your jeans.
“And how you make me experience this overwhelming lust I’ve never felt before,” you clarify. You pick up your balled up socks from the ground and sit in the armchair across from the couch. The position of the furniture allows you an unobstructed view of Brian. You take the opportunity as an excuse to stare. Your encounter is coming to an end and you would be daft to squander the view. Brian isn’t making this awkward; it’s only awkward if you make it that way.
He doesn’t bother to mask the expression of relief that crosses his features. “Life would be far simpler if it was always easy to discern lust from love,” Brian answers. You think he’s finished speaking, but he continues. “You’re wise beyond your years.”
It isn’t the first time either of you alluded to the age gap between you. But this feels different; Brian is allowing the implications of such a gap to rise to the surface. “Or I’ve spent a lot of time listening to the lyrics of It’s Late,” you offer. It doesn’t escape you that you have to be close to the age Brian was when he wrote that song.
A comfortable silence sits between you as you pull on your socks and find the silver boots you so hastily kicked off last night. “How far do you have to travel back?” Brian asks. His question reminds you that you just had sex with someone who barely knew your name, and you feel a blush rise to your cheeks.
“Not too far,” you explain, tugging on your other boot. “If we’re anywhere close to the United Center, then it’s only a short Uber to LaSalle Street Station. Then I just hop on the next...” you purposefully pause and look up at Brian again, a big smile on your face, “Rock Island train.” You know Rock Island Line by Lonnie Donnegan was the first record Brian bought, and you’re desperate to get him to let his guard down and sing. “Down the Rock Island line is a mighty good road,” you start, standing up from the armchair.
Sure enough, Brian joins in and sings softly,
“Oh, the Rock Island line is the road to ride.
The Rock Island line is a mighty good road.
If you want to ride, you gotta ride it like you find it. Get your ticket at the station of the Rock Island line!”
you finish together, before chuckling at your spontaneous duet.
“You’re joking,” Brian responds once both of your giggles subside. “Nope, I take the Rock Island Metra into the city every day for work,” you explain, realizing only after you speak that Brian May wouldn’t give a damn about your daily commute. “I knew of the Rock Island train long before I knew of the song,” you finish lamely.
You grab your purse and make sure nothing fell out last night in the throes of passion. “Let me give you money for a taxi.” You look up to see Brian standing before you. “I want to make sure you get home safely.”
The concerned look on his face reminds you that beneath it all, he’s a dad and grandfather first and foremost. “Please, no,” you object. You’re keenly aware that any money exchanged, regardless of intention, would cheapen a night you hope to remember fondly. “I really enjoyed myself, I hope you enjoyed yourself, and that’s enough, yeah?”
Brian nods, apparently catching your drift. He walks you to the door of the suite. You pause before opening the door and turn to face him. “But maybe, would you mind a hug, before I go?” You wonder how you can suddenly be so shy with the man after he literally had his dick in you just hours ago. Must be the guilt that comes with overstaying one’s welcome.
Brian opens his arms, and you rush into them without a second thought. His hands stay on your back, never straying to your hips or backside. You run your hands up his back, committing to memory the feeling of his strong arms, the smell of the hotel soap and his cologne. Before you pull away, you can’t resist allowing your hand to creep up further, where you ruffle his snowy curls under the guise of massaging the back of his neck. “You’re cute,” he mutters into the top of your head.
And you know that’s your cue to pull away. “And you’re the perfect gentleman, Dr. May. Thank you for a wonderful time,” you memorize those warm hazel eyes and the way his white curls frame his face before turning back to open the door of the suite.
The hallway seems so bright. You can’t bear to turn around to the door. But you swear you hear his gentle lilt before the door clicks shut once more.
“Thank you.”