"Hands up."
Marina snaps a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and locks them to the headboard. He didn't imagine her to be a kinky type. She is going to ride his cock with him bound, or maybe sit on his face and force him to eat her out. He is so hard it hurts. She never asked for consent but the answer is yes.
She climbs off of him, and pulls on an oversized t-shirt. She clicks the lights off, tucks the blankets over him, and gets into bed, facing away. The bed is so large a whole other person could fit in the gap between them.
"Good night, Daniel."
A bleary Marina wakes him, and he jerks, to find his hands still cuffed, a sharp clang above his head. Her hair is in a ponytail instead of a braid, but otherwise she looks the same because she never wears makeup.
"Good morning..." Daniel blinks and his tearducts are crusty.
"You sleep in late. Could I commission you to write some music for me?"
Marina dangles a key in front of his face.
"...Sure."
She unlocks the handcuffs. Daniel finds his clothes from yesterday folded in the corner and puts them back on.
Marina stirs a wooden spoon into clear egg yolks on a frying pan. He imagines hugging her from behind, and breathing in her neck. The cotton would be soft around her thin waist and she would smell like her bed, like grandma perfume. Even though she was naked in front of him last night, he doesn't feel allowed to touch her, he needs permission to move closer.
Instead, he takes a seat at the dinner table, rubbing the smooth wood as a supplicant for her hips. There are six blank music sheets on the table and a fountain pen— she must think he doesn't need an eraser, that he doesn't make mistakes. Denji clenches the pen hard. In the garden, bees float around roses, their fuzzy bodies dusted with pollen. Sheers have cut the thorns from their stems.
The blinds fall down.
"You seem distracted," Makima says. Her hand is on the cord. She places a plate of unseasoned scrambled egg yolks in front of him.
"...Sorry."
Denji draws circles and lines with the fountain pen. He makes a mistake, mouths a silent cuss, then makes the obviously wrong note look like it was on purpose by adding accompanying harmonies. A commission should have some guidelines, a desired tone, or something, but he isn't about to take her charity for granted. She's the first person to ever find value in him.
He has wondered what a conductor must do on their time off. Practice waving their arms around? Marina lounges on the couch, until she checks her wristwatch and disappears down the hall.
A flock of red and orange bursts from the soundproof room, and the house erupts with song. They flap around the livingroom, fly up to the high ceiling, and perch on the swooping arms of the chandelier. Some tightrope across the windowsill and peck at the wood. A couple land on his shoulder and chirp harmoniously.
Marina is on the couch again. Canaries land on her shoulders and flutter in her hair. One pokes its beak into her scalp, snags threads of hair, as if making a nest. She stares forward at him, unphased. If he had feathers, she would be as unbothered by his touching. He was born the wrong species.
"Is it really okay for me to stay here?" He asks.
"I prefer it. I like to watch you work."
Birds eat sunflower seeds out of her hand. She lets the kitchen sink trickle, so they can bathe under the steady stream. Some poke at the blinds, desperate for sunlight.
