by K. A. Hobbs
“And if someone sees me?” I ask, worried, my eyes darting around the street.
“Ah, well, since I’m a senior I can control who can see us. Trust me, no one who may have known you before will see you.”
“There’s so much in our world I’ve yet to learn, isn’t there?”
“Tonnes. But I’m still learning, too, if that makes you feel any better?”
I squeeze his hand and walk forward. “Not really, but thanks for trying.”
We walk in silence for about ten minutes, both of us watching the people rushing around, all with somewhere important to get to. It strikes me as funny that we spend our whole human life constantly waiting for the next thing to happen, counting down the days, and all too soon, the day comes and goes and the pattern is repeated again for the next thing.
I wish I had taken more time to just be—to live in the moment and enjoy what I had. I don’t regret being excited for things to come, or even counting down the days until they did. I just wish I’d spent more time savouring life and less time wishing it away.
George slows his pace when we reach a row of white painted houses. From the location alone, I can tell he had money when he was alive. The building standing before me is grand and elegant, and I imagine it cost a fortune to live in back then, as it undoubtedly does today.
“This is where I spent my human life. I lived with my parents and when they died, I continued to live here.”
“It’s beautiful.” I smile. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask whatever you like.”
“Who were you, George?”
“Who was I? I’m not entirely sure I understand what you mean?”
“Before you came here… who were you?”
“Ah. Well, I worked for the Prime Minister in his office helping him with his day to day obligations and so on.”
“And how… How did you…?”
“Die?” He smiles sadly.
“Yes.” I flush, embarrassed at my probing question.
“I spent my days working with some of the most important and respected people in the country, and then in my spare time, I volunteered to help those who needed it. I served soup. I cared for the sick.”
“Wow, that was so kind and thoughtful.”
He laughs a little. “It was also that which killed me. I contracted tuberculosis, and even with what was considered the best care available at the time, I didn’t survive it.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, squeezing his fingers.
“It was a long time ago, and at any rate, my death is nothing compared to yours.”
“Don’t say that. It must have been excruciating and scary.”
He turns to look at me so intently and deeply I’m sure he’s looking into my soul. “So must yours.”
We spend a couple of hours walking around London. George shows me places he used to frequent and tries to explain to me the world he came from. It’s fascinating and I find myself wanting to know more.
We’ve just finished lunch when he tells me he’s needed back at the house. I watch the waitress make eyes at him, and I watch him smile politely and make it clear he’s not interested. The whole thing makes me laugh, because truly, how could someone like us have a relationship with a human?
When we get back, George has a few things to do. He walks me to my door, and, like the complete gentleman that he is, kisses the back of my hand and leaves.
I walk through my quarters and straight to my bedroom to change out of my everyday clothes and into my workout clothes—leggings and a longline, oversized t-shirt. I slip my feet into my most flexible trainers and pull my hair up and on top of my head.
Grabbing a bottle of water, my headphones and workout armband, I head out to the grounds to lose myself to music and movement for a while. Everyone has something that can quieten their mind and stop their thoughts from racing, and dancing is mine. It was from a very young age.
I find the perfect spot on the manicured lawns. It’s bathed in sunshine and there doesn’t seem to be any wind to buffet me around. After stretching and warming up, I search through my playlist and settle on one of my favourite songs, Eva Cassidy’s Songbird.
The second the guitar strings fill my ears, my legs and arms move of their own accord. In these moments, I feel like I’m not in control of myself, that my soul takes over and guides me. I feel like the music comes from within me, that my heart understands a language my head doesn’t.
I twirl, I spin, I pivot. And I keep going until my muscles burn and I’m so tired I can barely stand anymore, and only then do I realise my mind has become silent.
I don’t meet anyone as I walk back into the house, yet I feel like there are hundreds of eyes on me. I take a shower, washing away the day—the good and the bad—before wrapping myself in the biggest, fluffiest towel and heading to my bedroom.
The last of the day’s sun filters in through the voile curtains, casting a golden, diffused light around the room. Pulling one aside, I let the light stream in, and stepping back, I hold my hand up to the light, watching as it bounces off the water droplets on my skin.
It happens all at once: a warmth takes over my body and a shiver runs up my spine. It takes me by surprise and I stumble backwards, coming to stand directly in front of my big mirror. Reaching up, I remove the towel from my head and let my long, dark hair cascade over my bare shoulders and down my back. Then, I drop the towel from around my body, removing its shield-like protection.
Standing completely naked in the middle of my bedroom, I finally take a good look at myself. I study my body’s curves and lines like I’ve never seen them before. I take in the slope of my cheekbones, high and proud. I study my small nose and big eyes that seem a little duller than I remember, the grief I have been wrapped in for the past week having taken its toll on them.
I step closer to the mirror and take in the soft roundness of my breasts and my flat stomach. I marvel at the strength and definition I still have in my arms and legs, and I smile in spite of myself at my small, high arched feet.
I remember my first ballet teacher telling me I had perfect ballerina feet—that I would go far. She was right. I did go far, and I could have gone so much further if I hadn’t had that and so many other opportunities snatched away from me.
As I gaze upon my naked reflection, I realise I haven’t changed as much as I thought I had. I’m still the same person on the outside, even if my mind, heart and soul feel so very different.
The person staring back at me is one I feel somewhat detached from. I can feel her heart beating. I know her thoughts and feelings, yet she feels like a stranger to me. I realise I’ve never given myself chance to get to know her. I’ve assumed I understand how she feels without really asking.
When did I lose myself on this massive, life-changing journey? When did I become a stranger to myself? And how can I get myself back?
I close my eyes and count to ten, and when I don’t feel ready, I count to twenty. Eventually, when I reach well over one-hundred, I open my eyes again and gaze upon myself.
The new me.
“Hi,” I say pathetically to my reflection. “I’m Imogen. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”
A couple of hours later, I sit at my vanity securing my loose braid with a hair tie. In a bid to get back the person I want to be, I’ve slipped into one of my favourite soft pink grecian style dresses. It comes to just above the knee and floats around me like my own personal cloud. I remember garden parties wearing this dress. I remember glasses of crisp white wine and mouth watering strawberries.
I remember laughing and feeling like I didn’t have a care in the world.
One day, that girl will be back, stronger and more determined than she has ever been.
Ten minutes later, I find myself walking barefoot down the corridor, past the many paintings that have been collected over the centuries by people just like me who have been here for hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. There isn’t a day that’
s passed when I haven’t been awed by just how many things we’re not aware of as humans—how we question the fairness of everything without fully understanding how many people are trying to make life a little easier without us knowing.
I don’t know what leads me to his door. I just know I need to see him.
I stop just outside his room and listen. I don’t hear the piano, but I hear something.
I reach for the handle and open the door silently, not bothering to knock. I know I should. He might want to be alone, but I just want to see him, to watch him without him knowing I’m there.
As I step inside, I spot him immediately, sitting over by the window, his back to me. The room is dark with only the golden flicker from a couple of candles and the moonlight allowing any visibility.
One thing I’ve learned about George is his love of the simple things. He loves to keep his daily life free from technology most of the time, refusing to be swallowed up by the constant need to inform everyone of what he’s doing and to document everything in the virtual hemisphere.
More often than not, he can be found reading in his armchair by candlelight, or playing music in the darkness of his quarters. He tells me his life before coming here was a simpler one and he intends to keep it that way.
I move a little closer, keeping my breathing even and calm so I don’t disturb him. He has music playing softly, an emotionally charged piece I don’t understand, but the pain and longing are clear.
Stationed between his long, elegant legs is a cello. His body cradles the instrument with an intimacy and fondness that borders on worship. The fingers on one hand make shapes on the strings while the others manipulates the bow to create the most breathtaking music.
I had no idea he could play the cello, but now I come to think about it, he’s so musical he comes alive when he’s playing so I’m not at all surprised. I’m certain he can play many instruments and seeing as he’s been gracing the earth for so long, he’s had plenty of time to master them.
The music ends and begins again, and he continues to play. I step closer and drop to the floor, silently folding my legs beneath me. The longer I watch him, his eyes closed and concentration etched on his face, the more I fall for him. I feel like I’m seeing something vulnerable—something so beautifully honest in him.
He’s not his usual neat and tidy self. His hair is sticking up, his glasses have fallen down his nose and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, the buttons undone at the neck. His feet are completely bare and resting on the hardwood floor.
He seems calm—collected.
He seems at peace.
After a few moments more, I regret barging in on him. I regret not making myself known. It’s rude to spy on someone when they are clearly so enthralled and enjoying some time alone. Deciding to come back another time, I go to stand when his voice stops me in my tracks.
“Stay… please.”
I turn back to look at him and meet his piercing blue eyes for the first time. I just nod and sit back down.
He continues to play for a few minutes more then stills his hands, one resting on the neck of the cello the other on his thigh. He doesn’t speak for a minute and his eyes remain closed. I grow uneasy and begin to feel uncomfortable when he opens his eyes and smiles at me.
“Forgive me. I was… Today is an, ah, significant day for me. Are you okay?”
“I just wanted to see you. I’m sorry if I interrupted something. I should have knocked.”
“Today…” He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. “Today is an anniversary of sorts, a birthday perhaps.”
He stands, places the cello on the big leather sofa then comes to sit next to me on the floor. He leans over, takes my hand and rests our clasped ones on his outstretched thigh. “Today is the day I became an angel. It is not a day to be mourned, not after all this time. It’s more of a day to celebrate. I was given the opportunity to help far more people this way, but I will admit to feeling a touch melancholy on occasion on this date.”
“I’m sorry, George. I had no idea. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself lately.
“How could you? I haven’t told you and besides, it’s not something you should feel any sadness or responsibility for. My new life has enabled me to help many, many people, and it has also made it possible for me to meet you.” He reaches over with his free hand and strokes my cheek. “Our paths would never have crossed otherwise, Imogen. And as much as I wish, truly with my whole being, you did not know this life, there is also a considerable and extremely selfish part of me that is glad you do.”
He smiles sadly at me and I feel the overwhelming urge to kiss him. I lean forward, making the most of us being almost the same height like this, and reach for his face. I press my lips to his and caress his cheek.
“I feel the same,” I tell him. “This is life now. I… we have to make it the best we can and focus on the opportunities we have been handed and not those that have been taken away.”
“Precisely. So, did you need me for anything specific? Do you have something you wish to talk about?”
“No, I just wanted to see you. Dare I say, I missed you?” I smirk, turning to look at him.
“You do and you did.” He smiles back. “I missed you, too. It’s been a challenging week, hasn’t it?”
“The worst,” I agree, running my thumb back and forth on the back of his hand.
“Well, you’re here now. Can I do something?” The husky note his voice takes on has my mind filling with intimate images, which wake up my mind and heat my body.
“Of course,” I manage.
He stands and holds out his hand for me. I take it and he leads me over to the piano bench. “Sit, please,” he orders softly yet firmly, leaving me no margin for refusal.
I do as he asks and take a seat, resting my hands in my lap. He walks over to where the music is coming from and stops it. The room suddenly falls silent, the only sound filling the vast space my slightly laboured breathing and the slow rhythmic beating of my heart. I flinch slightly when he sits down next to me. He always moves so silently and often takes me by surprise.
He raises his hands and places them on the keys, turning to look at me. “I’d like to teach you.”
“Teach me?”
“To play. I’ve seen the longing in your eyes when you watch me. I’ve seen how your mind, your body and your soul come alive whenever you hear music. I want to teach you to play so you can feed your soul in other musical ways. Would you like me to?”
The sudden onslaught of emotion I feel takes me by surprise, and all I can manage is a feeble nod. He moves his hands over the keys, and a song I know and love pours from his fingertips.
“I can’t,” I mumble stupidly.
Without missing a note, he speaks. “I don’t expect you to be able to play like this, not for a long time. I just thought… I’ve heard you play this song before. I’ve seen you in the gardens dancing with your headphones on, a look of serene calmness on your face. You’re always smiling when you have music around you. I want to give you another outlet for your passion, maybe even one for your grief. I want to show you that there are so many ways to continue being who you were, but also to incorporate who you’ve become.”
As the song builds, so does my feeling of complete and all consuming love for the beautiful man sitting beside me. He knocks the wind out of me on a daily basis. He has silenced me in awe on so many occasions. It hasn’t been something I’ve gone looking for. I haven’t set out to fall for him, but it’s been impossible not to.
When someone is brave enough to show you the many layers of themselves and each and every one of them is beautiful, whether flawed or not, and when they make you a better person and encourage you to be exactly who you are because they love you for it, how can you not fall in love with them?
He shifts slightly and leans around me, resting his hands on top of mine. He clasps my fingers and moves mine along with his.
It’s clumsy and not at all as graceful or r
efined as when he plays alone, but there is something oddly beautiful about it. Sitting in the near dark surrounded by George is other-worldly. There’s something spiritual and intense in the air, and I feel as though I discover a piece of me that I never knew existed before. I feel like my old self is meeting my new one and they’re finally agreeing to be friends.
I lose myself to his teaching, absorbing his knowledge like a sponge and blossoming under his praise and encouragement. By the time we’ve finished, I can play a couple of simple songs and my fingers ache from the hours of practise.
But I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy. It’s almost like with George’s presence, with his love, my broken soul has began to mend itself, to heal from the trauma of my past, and in doing so, it jumps head first into its new life.
“Thank you. It’s been… magical.”
As I turn my head to look at him, he turns his and we’re inches away from each other. I smile, and before I can overthink it, I lean forward, clutching at his shirt, and kiss him. He inhales sharply and pauses for a second before his hands come around my waist and he kisses me back.
For a few blissful minutes, all I feel is George—his hands on my skin, the heat radiating from his body and the soft warmth of his mouth. I can’t remember feeling a fraction of what I’m feeling right now for anyone in my human life. I don’t remember wanting someone as much as I want George.
“I told you,” he pants, pulling back and looking me in the eyes. “Music makes you come alive. It awakens every cell in your body.”
“You do the exact same,” I tell him honestly, leaning closer to reunite my lips with his. “You make me feel so…”
I take a deep breath and try to find the right words. I try to convey what having him near me does to me. But every word that comes to mind doesn’t seem enough. Every word seems pathetic and foolish.
“So?”