On an Edge of Glass

and those tiny little white marshmallows that you get with hot chocolate mix. 
                  Tonight I’m grateful for obnoxious kids at coffee shops, blue shirts, and that Ben Hamilton insisted on driving his car separately when we left the house earlier tonight.
                  I send Payton and Ainsley both quick texts as we leave the club so that they won’t worry about me.  But, judging from their outfits and the way they acted when I saw them last, I doubt that they’ll be too concerned about my whereabouts.
                  Ben and I don’t talk much during the car ride home.  I lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window and listen to the music that begins playing when he turns on his car.  It’s classical.  It’s sad and beautiful all at once—deep tones that sigh through the speakers and resonate deep in my belly.
                  “This is really nice,” I say appreciatively.  Then I wonder if he understands that I mean the music. 
                  Ben ducks his head sheepishly.  “This is me.”
                  “Really?”  My eyes widen a fraction and my mouth goes slack.  I think there might be awe written on my face. 
    Ben nods but seems even more embarrassed. 
                  “Yeah… I know that it seems strange to listen to myself play but I have a big solo coming up.  A friend of mine offered to record me so that I could listen for errors and places where I need to speed it up or slow it down,” he explains quickly, looking at me sideways like he wants to be sure that I’m following what he’s saying.  “I swear that I’m not the kind of guy that stares at myself in the mirror for hours at a time flexing my muscles.”
                  I shake my head and laugh. 
    I don’t say what I’m thinking: that I could probably stare at him for hours at a time.  For a few moments, I just listen to Ben’s music—to the sigh of the instrument that sounds like a revolution. 
    I’m breathing funny and I’m thinking that this music is something that Ben made .  He created it from nothing. And I haven’t created anything lasting in my whole life.  Unless you count some mediocre photos and the glitter collage I brought home in second grade that my mother’s best friend had framed. 
    “ No.  No, it’s not strange at all.  I just wasn’t expecting it.”  A small smile turns my lips.  Words aren’t adequate but they’re all I have.  “You’re really good.  This is good.”
                  Ben turns on a mega grin and pops one of his eyebrows.  This is when I notice that he’s driving just under the speed limit and that he holds the steering wheel with both hands the way that my dad taught me to.  For some reason I almost laugh.
    “ Ellie, did you think that I’d waste my college education and my time so that I could play like crap?”  He asks teasingly. 
                  I like that he’s a careful driver.  I like the way that my name sounds coming out of his mouth.  I like that his words mean one thing but the tone of his voice means another.  Ben is flirting with me.
                  “Ahhhh… I get it.  You’re a musical genius.  You are…” I look up at the roof of the car searching for the right words—for a compliment that is cute but doesn’t expose my raw beating heart.
    “Full of surprises?   Incredibly handsome?” Ben offers up as he pulls into the driveway and parks behind my car.  The music stops abruptly when he kills the ignition. 
    M y laughter propels itself around the sudden quiet of the car.  I cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes at him in mock seriousness.  “At least one of those things is true.”
                  Drooping yellow light from the streetlamp filters in through the windows.  It frames Ben’s face.  With his hair back in a ponytail, I can see his features in a new way and my heart jolts unexpectedly.
                  He’s sitting there watching me.  His brown eyes move over my body unchecked.  I feel like maybe something really is happening here.  And it’s something other than dancing, and casual post-vodka kissing. 
    It’s the feeling that I had during our first encounter in the coffee shop.  It’s brightness.  It’s like nothing is actually something , and maybe—just maybe—it’s a