I hold his shoulders, hug him tight. Kiss his long, soft hair and his big, sturdy ass pulverizes my balls.

Two years old and already so strong. I shift, relieve the pain. He looks up at me, grinning two teeth. It’s our rocking chair time before bed, my favorite part of the day. “Book?” he says and he reaches for one, parking thirty-five pounds back on my nuts.

I moan and hold him still, open the cover. I do my funny voice and he laughs, pure lustrous joy. This is what life is all –. His bouncing body jackhammers my testicles into my legs and I forget who I am.

The walls warp, blobs hover. He turns the page. Sweat on my forehead, I might puke.

“Brothers” he says, pointing to the two boys on the page then standing up in my lap, his potent hooves tap dancing my cherries.

“Do you…” I wheeze, “want a brother?”

He stands still and laughs. “No-o,” he sings, shaking his head.

I try to turn the page but he jumps, curls up all mighty and dense, and lands his cannonball right on target. My grapes squash and pop. A muffled gunshot only I can hear. Red wine fills my sack.

“No brother. Just daddy.”

He’s a strong and smart boy, and he knows what he’s doing.

Pure white. Eggshells, unbroken.

So clear I see mine reflected. Two roasted beets.

His porcelain orbs. Unstained marble.

My rubber band wads. Old baseballs dissected by a lawnmower. A snowman’s red-hot coals.

He sips his bottle and we stare. I’m lost in the milky sea and he’s frightened by these deranged grapes of mine.

Look at those blue irises. Like mine were. Blue? Were they? Now? Blood balloons. Crimson roadmaps of flaming car accidents.

Dented pupils snared in frayed capillaries stuffed with purple deposits. My blinks bump. How much cholesterol can an eyeball hold? I look at his perfect little feet, then back to his eyes, and moving these cankered nuggets just an inch emits a wretched scraping sound.

He starts to cry and I close my eyes. He calms. I rock him and he falls asleep. “I’ll keep them closed for you,” I whisper. “Anything you need, forever.”

I place him in his crib, kiss his forehead. Exit the room, press my phone against my face and let the videos rip.

Inside, outside, anywhere, any time — if there’s live music, count me in. Sports bar? Street food festival? Sunday morning farmer’s market? Tell me there’s a live music act and I’m there. Any performer, performing any genre of music. Guitars, drums, keyboards, bass? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Vocals? Bring it on. I love live music and nothing catches my eye on an advertisement like those two magic words. Say no more; the pitch has worked. I don’t need to know the band and I don’t need to know the songs they’re playing. I don’t keep up with the music industry or follow the schedules of particular groups. I’m not interested in paying for a ticket to see a performance, but if the performance is free and happening during lunch? Sign me up. As long as there are instruments connected to amplifiers and they are producing a combination of notes while I eat a meal, I’m there. Whatever I’m doing, no matter how busy I may think I am, if I get wind of a live performance from a local musician… It’s pencils down and I’m going. Sorry, boss. Sorry, visiting relatives. There’s a classic rock outfit about to take stage at the pocket park by the river. It’s a hundred and two degrees and the food truck didn’t show up, but I’m having the time of my life. I crave sounds being made by men I do not know. Big guys in hats squeezing strings with their left hands while slapping those same strings with their right hands. Heaven. I don’t feel the need to apologize for this interest. High notes, low notes, some right in the middle. Lead me up the scale, gentlemen, then guide me back down. Half notes, whole notes, quarter notes — whatever you’ve got in stock, I’m buying. The louder the better. But sometimes they get quiet for a little while, and I like that as well. Then back with the booms, wails, doos and bleeps. I don’t know the technical terminology; I’m not a musician myself. I let the pros handle the heavy lifting while I open my ears and consume the sounds they serve up. I want those rhythms and melodies to muffle every dinner I eat, every conversation I struggle to have. I like to scream at my wife, scream at my friends. I like to never know what anyone is saying — waiters, ushers, security staff. Nod and smile when they scream back at me but all I hear is the live music. It’s all I want to hear, a man I’ve never met singing lyrics I can’t quite make out. I jam while my wife and friends yell at me. I can’t hear a word. Flash a thumbs up and they turn and walk away from me. Their loss. There’s music here, live! I hoot and dance and give these local musicians back the energy they’re giving me. That’s what it’s all about, the relationship between live performer and audience. I flash two devil-horn hand gestures and then read the text saying everyone is mad at me for dragging them to this loud show and smiling and nodding when my best friend told me he has lung cancer. How was I supposed to hear him? I was enjoying music performed live. Who’s in the wrong here? Not me. I catch the sound guy’s attention, tell him to turn the volume up, way up, as the guys introduce two trombone players and the crowd thins out. More for me. Carry on, gentlemen, you know I’m not going anywhere.