Secret Garden

This one is from day 7. We’re on day 27 now, just for context. So the how and why of it have changed some, but it is remains essentially the same chapter.

We’re in bed at the Brubaker, in my room, listening to “Secret Garden” by The Boss.

I ask if you’ve ever read the book.

You might wonder which one I mean, and I say the 1911 one by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

You either know what I mean and have read it, you know it but haven’t read it (or all of it), or you don’t know what I mean.

If you know it, I ask if you think Bruce did.

You probably say, Probably.

I giggle, and kick my feet a bit under the covers.

If you want to snuggle, we can. If you want to kiss me, you can.

“Look,” I say, looking at you and smiling, “I hope this is okay, babe. Like, all of it. And if it’s not, then I hope you’ll say so. That you’ll tell me.”

You might look at my eyes and wonder what’s in there, if there a place a blue million miles away.

If you want to tell me anything, you can now. I’m always receptive, but I’m particularly open right now. So it’s a good time.

If you don’t want to, that’s okay. You can get up and go, if you want; or you can stay here with me.

Do you have a secret garden, I ask.

If you do, you can tell me about it, or you can play along with the song and keep me out. I’ll react to that however you want. If you want me to get persistent, then I will. If you want me to be frustrated, I can be. If you want me to be intrigued and kina turned on by it, well, then I will be, babe.

“Night time is the right time,” I say.

You roll your eyes or laugh—whatever feels right.

I say, “That’s from a book I wrote. Or tried to write. I was friends with another writer and he would give me tips from time to time. That expression came out of one of those. So now it’s like an artifact, I guess. This tangible piece of learning from my earlier years.”

You notice [Ed. on a successful perception check; v.i. play procedures.] that I’m thinking over something.

You can ask me, and I’ll just tell you. Or, if I notice you noticing me, I’ll come out with it: “What we actually said was, ‘Init to win it.’ I changed it for the book. What do you think? Should I have? Or was it bad advice? Or you know, maybe not bad advice, but advice wrongly applied?”

If you have an idea, tell me if you want.

If you don’t care, the next song comes on.

I look at you, and you look at me.

“If you want to kiss me, you can,” I say and make my mouth open, tilt my head so my hair falls the right way.

If you do, then I kiss you sweetly and try to draw you in deeper, lower us down to the bed. We can go on this like this, kissing and listening to music, talking. We can make love, sweet and tender. Or we can fuck. It’s up to you, baby.

Play procedures:

• If you want, you can make a perception check to see if you noticed me thinking it over. If you don’t have a perception score, you may assign yourself one now.
• You may collect either or both songs into your inventory. Normally you can substitute other songs if you think they’d fit the mood better. Given the name and nature of the chapter, you can do that with the Beefheart song, but not the Springsteen one.
• Think about a time you’ve received advice, tried to apply it, and gotten mixed results. You can work that into our adventures together, if you’d like. If you’re keeping a journal, write it down.