(Thank you @blissful119 once again for the inspiration)
You’re sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, half-distracted as I slip the vinyl from its sleeve.
“You’re going to laugh,” I say, smiling down at the label, “but I found this in a hidden little shop near the station. Dusty. Uncatalogued. Almost missed it.”
You glance up. “And what is it?”
“No title,” I murmur. “No artist. Just… this.”
Still, you don’t stop me.
A soft crackle, and then sound.
The melody is slow. Gentle. Almost nothing.
A few high notes, drifting.
A low hum underneath.
It builds so gradually, you don’t realize how much it’s drawing you in until your head tips back.
You’re still watching me, but softer now.
I sit beside you. Close, but not touching.
“Don’t you just love this music…?” I ask.
You exhale, slow. “Yeah… it’s pretty. Like a…”
Your voice drops into the word.
I smile. “Mmm. It does sound like a lullaby, doesn’t it?”
“There’s something to be said for that word… lullaby...”
I let it linger in the air between us.
“All soft sounds. No edges. Such a sleepy word.”
A pause. Then, very gently:
“You’re not sleepy, are you?”
You laugh. Soft, embarrassed. “No.”
But your eyelids flutter.
I watch the side of your face, your throat, the way your breath has begun to stretch.
“Do you know why lullabies make people sleepy?”
You shift slightly. Then dryly, a little too quick:
I glance at you, amused. “Mmm?”
A beat. Your brow furrows, just slightly.
“Because… they’re slow. Simple patterns. Obvious.”
Your voice is defensive now. Trying too hard to sound clinical. Like you’re quoting something.
“That’s part of it,” I say. “Slow. Simple. But it’s more than that.”
You don’t interrupt me this time.
“It’s the intervals,” I say. “Most lullabies move in what’s called stepwise motion. No leaps. No sudden jumps. Just soft, careful steps.”
“Back… and forth. Like this…”
I move my hand in a gentle arc, left to right, then right to left. Smooth. Predictable.
“And more than that,” I say, voice softening, “it’s the direction.”
I change the gesture, now slowly lowering my hand in the air. From above your eyeline, down to your chest level. Down… and down again.
Your gaze flickers up to my hand again, now rising slowly and falling again in that same downward path.
“That downward pull you’re probably feeling right now.”
“You’re feeling it, aren’t you?”
“And that downward motion,” I whisper, “it mirrors something in the body.”
“They feel like sinking into bed. Like sliding under water. Like the weight behind your eyes.”
Your eyes flutter. You try to shake it off. A tiny shift of your shoulders. A breath pulled deeper than you meant, like it startled you. Like you caught yourself on the edge of something.
I let my hand drift again, slow and downward. Your eyes catch it… and stay.
“Feels good to follow, doesn’t it?” I ask.
You hesitate, just for a beat.
Your lips stay slightly parted after you speak.
“Feels easy to follow,” I murmur.
And after a second, just above a whisper…
I smile. “Mmm. That’s it.”
The music settles deeper now. Your eyes lift once more, trying to follow my hand, even though it’s stopped moving.
“Your eyes must feel so heavy by now.”
Your lashes don’t quite rise all the way.
Your eyes flutter once more.
And this time, they stay shut.
