by Sia Wales
He looks in my eyes and for a moment and I realize how clear his irises are, clearer and bluer than usual, much more so than the other night.
“You’re not hungry.” I comment, and it’s not a question.
He purses his lips, curious. “What makes you say that?”
“Your eyes,” I reply. “When they are black you are always hard to deal with.” I mutter. “And you become irritated because of your hunger, or actually, your thirst.”
He lets out a slight laugh. “You’re a good observer, eh?”
I shrug.
“Yes, dark eyes show my need, Stella. I wish,” he interrupts. “I can’t stop the change, not when I want you so damn much that I forget to breathe.”
“Never mind.” I mutter.
“And yes, I fed just before seeing you, to not risk it, unlike you.” He scolds me. “I feel it. You have a weak heartbeat, low energy, right now you are what hunters would call an easy prey. You have to eat, little girl.” Donn’s voice is low but full of authority.
“Honestly, I’m not hungry,” I tell him, and I try to study his expression, but it’s still unreadable.
Then he looks at me and decides. “I think you should eat something. Do me this favor.” He winks. “You eat, and I’ll be good.” He negotiates.
“Okay. A snack” I say, biting my lip, trying to guess if he agrees by reading his eyes.
He nods imperceptibly. “How kind,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile.
Time passes as quickly as the dark sky behind us. I keep watching him while he is driving. He does not take his eyes off the horizon until the car stops suddenly, on the side of the road.
Donn turns off the engine.
Through the windshield, a wall of dense clouds is coming in quickly from the west casting a dark shadow on the asphalt. I look around, but there’s too much confusion to notice anything specific, except for the vague outlines of trees on the edge of a park just beyond the sidewalk.
I hear his door close quickly and almost instantly he shows up at my window, before I can even open my door. He opens it with a swift movement of the hand and gestures to me to come out.
Walking by my side, he is always perfectly beautiful, unattainable.
Crossing the park, full of excitement we start talking: how we were, what we have been up to, and how much it took for him to get me there. When, hesitantly, I tell him about Jeff, Scott and Tyler, his powerful laugh vibrates in his chest. But then we get to the touchier topics. We address the reasons for our separation, and I see Donn’s face harden into a mask of bitterness. It is all too familiar to me, despite barely knowing him for a very short time.
With my heart pounding, I follow him as he makes his way through the trail. Our eyes search out our surroundings, anxiously searching for memories that have brought us together over time. Judging by his expression, he seems to be reviewing them in detail, one by one. At the other end of the park, we turn right onto the sidewalk and he stops abruptly, blocking my way.
“Here we are. We’ve arrived.” He announces. “This is the plan I had for you, tonight” he confesses finally, speaking softly.
I look over his shoulder and see the sign for the Boston Opera House and hardly anyone at the majestic white entrance in front of me.
The suprise overtakes me. That’s why that night, when I refused his invitation, he spoke about a curtain.
He stares at me, inquisitively. It’s possible that he is not grasping the reason why my lips are curving into an involuntary grin. Slightly embarrassed, his sincere smile follows mine, as he glances back.
The posters on the outside walls reveal, in huge characters, the title of the work: The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde.
Tears begin to cloud my eyes. The emotion is so powerful that I take a deep breath to hold myself back from jumping all over him, right here, right now.
His icy fingers close tight around mine. I turn to look at him. He lifts up my hand and presses it against his chest. Through his shirt, I can feel his heart beating strong. I feel his breath flowing inside of me, and then out, as his lungs expand and contract. I feel the icy cold from his body, seeping through all the way to his fingertips.
“What a magnificent theater,” I say in a soft, incredulous voice.
“It’s not that old…” He stares at me. “At least, not when you compare it with me,” he replies with a shrug. “Would you like to spend some time inside… with me.” His perfect lips reveal the smallest hint of a smile.
“Of course. Yes. Thanks for thinking of me. I love this place.”
His smile grows wider. “I’m happy you like it. I mean…”
Then he stops. “I thought it might help remind you of me, once in a while.”
“Donn, there is not one single moment when you are not a part of me, when you are not in my heart, nor a day when my thoughts are not filled with images of you. Always,” I whisper in his ear, on the tip of my toes, almost to reassure him.
“Oh, come on, come here and let me hug you,” he says softly. He puts his long arm around my shoulders, while the other one falls around my waist. He holds me tight with one of his most happy and carefree smiles that I adore, and that transforms him into a little boy once again. I flash a quick smile back at him, before his turquoise eyes turn back to the theater.
“Come on, now,” he says his voice kind and soothing. “It can’t be that bad”. He grabs my hand and gracefully twirls me around. I could have never done that myself .. We move toward the entrance.
He is walking so close to me, holding my hand as we cross the street and helping me to hurry to the golden entrance of the venue, never letting go of me. I notice the translucent hue of his skin wrapped in his shirt cuff. I look at him: his eyes are not showing the same torment they used to.
As we walk inside, our big smiles still on our faces, I let out a snigger. Crystal chandeliers, white marble columns, decorated ceilings and red tapestry welcome us to the foyer.
Clearly pleased, Donn ignores the wonder I am not able to conceal.
“I’m going to go get the tickets. Wait for me here. Make sure you don’t run away,” he whispers.
I smile back. “I’m not going anywhere.” I am in no rush to leave this unexpected paradise.
As he walks away, I am not able to decide what I should observe first. Should I concentrate on this invaluable architectural treasure, or on the masterpiece walking elegantly in front of me?
I settle for both, although I have to admit Donn is much more fascinating. He exudes some kind of innate power even when he is not moving, even when he seems to glance at me absent-mindedly.
He turns to me with a big smile, and I avert my eyes immediately, before he can catch my stare. I pretend I am admiring the floors, the ceilings, and the tall walls of the atrium.
A sudden, icy shift in the air tells me I am not alone anymore. A chill of distress creeps down my spine. I look up, and I am not at all surprised to find Donn standing next to me. He is right here, less than an inch from my face. His gaze is on me. His lips turn into a smile. His turquoise eyes are on fire.
He puts one arm around my waist, his other hand on my shoulder. Once again, I feel that electric magic that runs through our bodies and that binds them together.
“Here I am,” he whispers, making my head spin. His voice is absolutely divine.
Holding my hand, he swiftly guides me to our seats up through the main stairway.
The show is about to begin.
I eagerly observe everything around me, and I take in the beautiful red and gold décor of this magnificent theater. Then my eyes return to Donn, as if his face were the only thing there. In no time he perceives my sudden immobility, and he surprises me as he stops next to a white door.
Stepping in front of me, he opens the door. I am flabbergasted, speechless. A beautiful, elegant, red velvet box, reserved for only the two of us. Right below, is the large wooden stage. The curtains are so close I feel I could hold out my hand and touch them.
He answers me with a smile and gently pulls me close, guiding me to the balcony. “This is our box,” he says. It towers over a surreal, red and golden view, from an age that is now past.
“I thought you would settle for some seats in the auditorium,” I whisper.
“It would have never crossed my mind, with you by my side,” he murmurs, and a thrill of excitement runs down my spine. With my shoulders to the stage, I feel as if Donn and I are the only two people there, but when I turn to take in the stage, my eyes fill with wonder: such a large audience, so much going on, lively voices chattering. The orchestra is rehearsing a few chords in its pit. The curtains move gently, lightly touched by some of the actors, ready to appear.
Eagerly waiting for the opening scene, I sigh: “How much longer before it begins?” I ask impatiently, filled with emotion.
Donn smiles. “It should have started a few minutes ago.”
“So, then, why are the curtains still drawn?” I ask him anxiously. His eyes brighten as he sees the expression on my face.
“You just need a little more patience”, he shoots me an exasperated look. “You’ll see, it’s going to happen any minute now,” he whispers. “No longer than a minute or two. We are waiting for the usual latecomers,” he reassures me with his kind voice, as soft as the velvet I am caressing on my chair.
Donn takes off his jacket and leans back into his chair, as the theater curtains begin to open and the lights are dimmed.
As I make myself comfortable on the chair close to his, he puts his arm around my waist and holds me tight. I sneak my head under his shoulder and cuddle on his chest, making sure to avoid the area between his neck and his chest. I do not want him to explode in a rage, or become the victim of one of his piercing, blaming looks. Could it be that an indelible trauma, tied to that sensitive part of his body, is still tormenting and torturing him through the ages? I try to get my mind off of it. Clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and the thought alone makes me shiver.
Yes, he is not as comfortable as the cushions on my sofa at home, but my desire is focused on the icy cold. It is my absolute favorite. He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and wraps it around me, so that I will not freeze from the icy temperature coming through his shirt. He looks stunning. This shirt reveals the perfect muscles on his chest. The lining of the jacket is still cold, but it is imbued with his fabulous perfume.
The show is finally beginning. We are on two separate chairs, but if feels like a single lounge.
His strong arms are holding me tight to his chest. He lifts my legs up onto his lap.
When he is not kissing my forehead, he is caressing my face and lightly stroking the length of my hair, as he delicately cradles me in his arms and whispers Dorian and Sybil’s words from the play. I am lost in his god-like embrace. He reminds me of the cold statue of an epic deity. I curl up onto his chest, and close my eyes for a moment.
I look down at the stage, bathed in light. The staging is so beautiful, so realistic. Only the spotlights in the theater reveal the illusion. The stern countenance of the hero is a calm mask that I have become to know so well. He reminds me of Donn.
I had forgotten how bothered I was by that deceitful expression that in reality hides a tormented soul. I had gotten to know Donn quite well before Jason’s return, so well that I had even learned to appreciate him. But when he shows off that look and that arrogant face, I cannot help but feel extremely irritated. It is the shady face of a man I don’t know at all. With that mask on, he is not my Dorian.
The drama continues on, and the plot thickens. I should not find anything wrong with it, but I don’t feel at ease and at first I am not able to understand why.
Only about halfway through the first act, watching the last of Sybil’s actions while she is still alive, I realize what is going wrong. My focus shifts from the disheartened looks of the heroine to the face of her lover, deprived of any emotion. It moves faster and faster as the distance between Dorian and Sybil fades. I cannot stand the thought that she is destined to die.
Suddenly, Donn leans down on me with an intense, incomprehensible look in his eyes. He stops reciting the dialogue and, before I can open my mouth to speak, he begins to sing softly and help me calm down.
The sweet and soothing notes of his lullaby cradle me, as if he had read my mind. His graceful hand, under my chin, turns my head so that I can look into his face, delicately illuminated by the clear brilliance of his turquoise eyes.
I can only hear the thump of my heart and Donn’s voice whispering in my ear: velvet and honey. Will I ever get used to the warm shiver he sends through my skin?
“Have you read the book?” he asks unexpectedly, between the notes of his lullaby.
“Never. But The Happy Prince and Other Tales is my favorite book, the very first my mother ever gave me when I was in Italy.”
“Have seen the movie, then?”
I shrug. “Nope.”
“You haven’t read, or watched, The Picture of Dorian Gray?”
“Is it really that bad?” I ask, slightly puzzled.
“It is, if you already know how it is going to end,” he whispers. It is as if I admitted that I was reading his mind.
“I was just trying to guess,” I struggle to explain myself. “Sybil is too involved, while Dorian’s manners are so cold and detached. How could their tormented love story not end in the worst way? And, otherwise, where would the drama be?”
Donn bursts out laughing loudly. “And you honestly don’t know what happens to Dorian… I must confess that, in this case, I am a little jealous.” I hide my face into his neck and deeply take in the scent of his skin, thus getting my mind off the scene in which the hero repudiates the girl.
“I am envious because for him it is so easy to reject her choice, and reject her,” he explains. “For you it was so… easy! All you needed was the hope to have Jason back,” he mumbles, pinching me and giving me goose bumps.
“And that’s easy for you…?” I reply shyly, my voice barely audible.
“I am sorry,” Donn whispers in my ear, holding his arms tight around my waist. “Anyway, in order to truly appreciate The Picture of Dorian Gray, you have to read the novel as it is portrayed according to the intentions of Oscar Wilde,” he says soflty, his delicate lips on my temple. I sigh.
“Yes, but how can I concentrate if you keep kissing me”, I reply with a smile.
“Well, then, I will try not to distract you,” he pronounces particularly slowly. I feel his cold lips brush against my cheek. As if those did not represent a distraction! “Or, if all else fails, I will try to do my best,” he adds, less than an inch from my lips. His thumb traces a long, deep line, all the way down to my neck. “Because the only way to resist temptation is to yield to it,” he concludes, quoting the line in perfect timing with the actor. Compared to his velvety and irresistible voice, the main protagonist’s sounds weak and hoarse.
Almost all throughout the show, I sense his eyes on me, analyzing the smallest change in my expression. His turquoise eyes are lit. He stares at me, fascinated, as if I were the only one able to feel the emotions that the expressions on my face reveal.
The storyline finally captures my attention, especially thanks to Donn, who keeps whispering Dorian’s every single word in my ear. When he pronounces them, they take on a new, deeper, and more intimate meaning.
“Do you think you are going to cry?” He asks me in a soft voice, then moves even closer and his cold lips press against my chin. He is breathing heavily, and his long fingers caress my eyelids for a moment.
I close my eyes, incapable of holding back my tears.
“I think I will, if I can follow the storyline.” I try to hide my tears, but one is already running down my cheek. I remind myself to breathe in and breathe out. Too many unexpected emotions, all in one night.
And then, his embrace. Cold, and yet terribly reassuring, firm. He has the power to
help me forget all of my grief.
I can tell he is smiling at my embarrassment, as I take in the delicious scent of his neck. “You know, I’ve never really understood Dorian completely,” he comments, almost halfway through the play.
“What is wrong with the character?” I ask him, intrigued.
To me, he seems like a good hero, mysterious and quite interesting.
“Well, first of all, he is in love with this Sybil. However, when she confesses that she wants to quit the theater to be with him, he leaves her. Doesn’t he sound a little fickle to you, this
Dorian?” He reminds me of someone… Guilty of breaking her heart, he will discover she committed suicide. And it will be the portrait to exhibit the signs of his dissolute life, filled with the turpitudes caused by his sense of guilt. Not long after, he commits a homicide. He kills his friend Basil, the painter. Not too smart, really. One mistake after another. It is only thanks to his shameless luck that he doesn’t end up on the list of suspects and saves himself from Sybil’s brother’s vengeance. I don’t believe he could have done anything worse to destroy his own happiness. But ‘Each of us has a heaven and a hell in them’, he quotes. “However, I must confess that Dorian, in the end, when he rips the portrait and dies by his own hand stabbing his own heart… is not too irritating… The ease with which he fights against his demons and strikes them, how swiftly he defies them. He is not human anymore, but he is not a vampire. It all seems very practical. All he needed was a simple dagger, and… that was the end,” Donn says, lightly brushing a lock of my hair against my lips. A disheartened expression appears from the corner of his mouth.
“What do you mean?” I protest, frowning. Fear takes over my voice. My tears are flowing against his chest where he cannot see them.