Jazz Moon Read Online Free

white—burnished to a fierce shine. The double-breasted suit jacket created a svelte contour. Reggie topped off his ensemble with a fedora, the brim angling down in debonair fash . He spent minutes styling it, then several more preening.
    â€œWhere you off to in these fine threads on a Monday?” Ben said. “Seeing Lila?”
    â€œNo, jack. She’s my weekend chick.”
    â€œI thought you said she was your main queen.”
    â€œShe is. But I branch out Monday to Friday. Well, Ben, as usual, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll plant you now and dig you later.”
    Reggie strutted out the door like a bouncy peacock.
    And Ben exhaled, relieved. He removed the perfume from his pants pocket and shut his eyes tight. “Come on. Concentrate, damn it.”
    He tried to excite himself by imagining the places Angeline would dab the fragrance.
    Breasts. Neck. Between her legs.

4

    I got love runnin’ through me,
Like a river,
Like wine,
Like sweet jazz in an uptown dive.
Runs through me, and through me, and through me.
    Â 
    May I kiss your pretty cheek?
May I kiss your pretty lips?
Your pretty hips?
Be my beauty,
’Cause I got love runnin’ through me.

    T he poem was Angeline’s anniversary gift, although not a surprise: He always composed a poem for their anniversary. It started when he told her about Shakespeare’s mysterious Dark Lady—the inspiration for many of his sonnets.
    â€œWell,” Angeline had told him, “I’m a dark lady. And I’m mysterious. So you can start writing poems for me.”
    She now bragged to the ladies at the beauty shop that her husband immortalized her in verse, declared to her friends that she was the muse of a great artiste .
    â€œI don’t hear that typewriter!” she hollered from their bedroom. “I know you ain’t finished writing my poem yet.”
    â€œJust taking a break, Angel. Can’t rush great art.”
    Angeline swept into the living room, pivoting around and modeling her new dress: a creamy white, sleeveless number made entirely of long strands of fringe. Her straightened hair was styled into the undulating curves of a marcel wave. She twirled into a statuesque pose: chin in the air, chest up, arms outstretched like a stage star at curtain call.
    â€œHow do you like it?” Her best temptress voice.
    â€œIt looks all right,” Ben said, then began typing as he suppressed a laugh and waited for the explosion.
    He didn’t wait long.
    The stage star pose disintegrated. Her hands sprang to her hips. “ All right? Benjamin Marcus Charles, you did not tell me this dress—which took me six months to save up for—just looks all right . You better be writing some poems about this dress, ’cause it looks beautiful on me! Do you hear? Beautiful!”
    Ben kept his head buried in his typewriter.
    â€œBen? You listening to me? BEN!”
    He looked up. “You say something, Angel?”
    He tried to keep his face straight, but it cracked wide open and a snicker bounded out as Angeline hurled herself at him.
    â€œI’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna make a widow out of myself right now!”
    Ben imprisoned her on his lap as she swiped at him and laughed at the same time. They sat quietly when their fun subsided. Her perfume smelled of vanilla with a dash of rose—Mr. Kittredge’s gift. A gold heart-shaped locket hung at her breast. She wore it every day. Angeline gazed at him, unblinking. He sensed desire swirling in her. He avoided her eyes, traced a random pattern on her thigh with his finger. He could feel her willing him to look at her. He didn’t. Couldn’t.
    With a terse outtake of breath, she shifted to the typewriter and began to study the poem.
    â€œHey! Not yet,” Ben said. “Not till next Saturday.”
    â€œHush.” She kept on reading.
    He recalled the first time he sent a poem to a magazine. He had worked so hard,