All Strung Out by Josey Alden

Scene 1 ~ Sophie
    Hondo left me. No fight, no discussion, no goodbye, no calls. No communication at all.
    It's not hard to understand what he's telling me: I'm dead to him.
    Nicole Tate, the accountant who's been here trying to sort out my finances (a.k.a. Sophie's mountain of unopened mail), told me what she saw that day. I realized that Hondo saw Mark kissing me on the floor of my closet. Hondo didn't even bother to take the flowers he'd brought me. They sat on the end table for a week—a stark reminder of his absence—before I tossed the whole arrangement, vase and all, into the trash. I kept only the little handwritten card.
    I don't know why he would run away like that, though. It makes no sense. We've always talked things out. When Hondo told me outright that he still thinks of himself as asexual, I took it to mean he didn't consider our relationship anything more than a friendship. What if he did think we were more? Did he believe we could be exclusive to each other without ever making love? I remember clearly our last conversation about sex. He said that when he thinks of having sex with someone, it makes him feel more alone. If being physically intertwined with another person makes him feel lonely, then what the hell is he feeling now, on his own?
    This morning, I'm sitting at my freshly tuned piano in my studio, staring at the keys as if I've never touched them before. Mark paid the tuner for me. He knows how sensitive I am to it being out of tune. He also asked if I wanted any more keyboards. I said, no, twelve is more than enough. I'm starting to wonder just how much money this guy has in the bank … and when it's going to run out. If I've learned anything in this short, strange life, it's that the money always runs out.
    Mark comes into my studio through the sound control room that connects my space with Lang's. It's going to take me a while to remember that it belongs to Mark now.
    My father spent so many years in that room. Famous guitarists flew to Dallas just to play in Lang's studio. Filmmakers shot documentaries in that room. He never recorded a single album here, though. This was his playground, the place he went when he didn't want to feel the pressure of recording or performing. He never kept much in here besides his guitars. As long as he had an amp, why would he need anything else? Still, the room is so much him , it's hard to believe it didn't disappear when he did.
    I haven't asked Mark what he plans to do with the studio. He and I haven't even talked about what's going to happen with the guitar collection. I should probably make sure he knows that the guitars did not come with the house. If he wants them, he will have to buy them from me for what they'd be worth at auction.
    Mark nudges me over on the piano bench so he can sit next to me.
    "You were jonesing to get that thing tuned, and I haven't heard a single note since you've been sitting here."
    I wrap my arms around my waist like I'm sick to my stomach. "I don't feel like playing today."
    "That's a shame," he says, massaging my shoulder as he pulls me closer to him. "I think it's a perfect day to play."
    Before I can respond, Mark settles his mouth on mine. He's calm at first, kissing me like we have all the time in the world. I close my eyes and focus only on this: the pressure of his lips on mine, the taste of him on my tongue, the heat of his body next to mine. As the minutes pass, his intensity grows. His hand is tight on the back of my neck, directing me where he wants. I have trouble breathing under the weight of his kiss. I'm relieved when he takes his hand off my neck to unbutton and unzip his jeans.
    "Hold on," he whispers into my ear as he stands up and pulls off his jeans.
    I no longer have to wonder what Mark looks like below the waist. His bottom half is in the same sculpted condition as his top half. He's well-endowed, but for a second, my mind flashes back to Hondo's perfect body. How many times did I share my bed with him,