‘You’re needed,’ I whispered as his hand left my waist. I felt immediately bereft, lonely and lost.
‘Am I?’ he asked, his eyes open with questioning as he stepped closer. His words were filled with more and stuffed with pleading, a double meaning standing behind them, confusing me. Tiredness and desire were mingling now and trying to throw me off-balance.
‘I should go,’ I replied, aware that Nadia was still standing at the door.
‘Stay,’ he pleaded, his hand snaking around my waist.
‘It’s late.’
‘Sorry again about tonight, Nat,’ Nadia said, stepping into the room. His hand left me. ‘We’ll make sure it never happens again, won’t we, Alex?’ Her gaze burned through me. The words designed to confirm her status. She was Eli’s aunt, of course she would be involved in Alexander’s life, but was there something more?
‘It’s not a problem,’ I replied. ‘Elise is a pleasure to be with.’
‘Nadia, can you tell Elise I’ll be there in five minutes,’ he said, a little breathless. I looked behind my shoulder as I left the room. Alexander’s stormy eyes followed me, and as I reached the end of the hallway, I heard him start to play. Fast and furious in pace, loud and free in meaning, no longer the sorrowful sounds of the haunting cry from a bow being dragged across the strings.
Inspiration had taken hold, formulating his composing.
But why?
Could I really be Alexander’s muse?
15
Nat
‘I wondered if I’d find you here.’
I turned around on the hard church pew to the deep voice behind me. The one I instinctively turned to. The voice that washed over me like a balm.
I hadn’t seen Alexander for a few days. He’d watched me dance one evening before Eli’s tap class had finished, silently getting up when the music ended and shutting the door behind him. We hadn’t talked about the night in his office, the kiss that ruined me for all future kisses or his confession that he wanted to tie me up with intricate knots. Nadia had collected Eli the previous evening. She had been frosty and aloof. Barely able to raise a smile or offer the chance of small talk.
‘Have you come back to pray?’ I asked, biting my lip as I heard a small rumble of laughter.
‘I’m here for you.’ Alexander sat down beside me, knocking his leg into mine. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. I liked his arms on view. ‘I hoped you’d be here. You’re becoming my favourite retreat.’
‘Why?’ I gasped.
‘Don’t ask me that.’ He fixed his eyes to the stained-glass window at the front of the church. It depicted Christ and the crucifixion, angels at his shoulders and beams of light falling from the sky. We sat in silence, together, but alone.
‘He always looks so sad,’ I said, taking in the features of Jesus as I searched for a topic of conversation to distract us. ‘Everywhere you go in the world he’s depicted as sad and sorrowful.’
‘Wouldn’t you be if you had that kind of pressure?’ He glanced at me. ‘Imagine the anxiety of living up to the expectations of being the son of God.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You hide your sense of humour well, Mr Burnett.’
‘Where do I hide it?’
‘Behind the grief.’
He sighed. ‘I’m sick of grief. Thinking about it. Talking about it.’
‘You need to laugh again and not feel guilty.’
‘I don’t often have anything to laugh about.’
‘That’s sad in itself.’
He nodded but pushed away the topic with a fresh question. ‘What are you here for today? A quiet space or to make your peace with God?’
‘Quiet space,’ I replied. ‘I’ve already made peace. I was angry with God for a long time, but life is hard enough.’ I watched his beautiful face, so expressive. ‘Where have you been?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen you since–’
He shifted a little, an awkward tension met the air, but he failed to honour it, pushing me to use more words. ‘Since?’
I hesitated. ‘Your…office.’
He nodded, still staring at the windows. ‘I’ve been busy composing. I hit a wall that night, but you unlocked something in me. Thank you.’
I wasn’t sure what he was thanking me for. The motivational team talk or the kiss?
‘Glad I could help,’ I mumbled as a thousand voices inside my head screamed talk to him about the kiss! It wasn’t just the kiss, though. I had so many other questions about that night. So many thoughts I wanted to shoot out. Starting with how Eli looked like her mother, how the clips of him with her as a baby had infiltrated my brain and stayed there. I wanted to tell him that I’d researched Shibari on the internet because the artwork not only intrigued me but turned me on. I felt excited at the prospect of offering him my body for art and pleasure. The endless thoughts of his hands working rope around my breasts had led to countless nighttime fantasies and strong orgasms.
But one of the biggest questions centered on Nadia and why it was painfully obvious that she didn’t want me in Alexander’s house.
I started fiddling with my fingers, like they were new extensions of my body and I was trying to find out how they worked. My stomach felt like a half-empty bottle of water and Alexander had turned it on its side, moving it from left to right. I couldn’t think straight or see as I should. The colours of the stained-glass windows were becoming a blur. It reminded me of the first time I saw an audience staring back in anticipation and all their faces merged into a palette of natural colours.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead,’ he replied.
‘I know Nadia is Elise’s aunt, but does she work for you?’
‘She’s my personal assistant,’ he replied. ‘She does some promotional work and marketing too. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I said, wafting my hands. ‘It makes sense now. She’s…around…a lot.’
‘She does…a lot,’ he mimicked, smiling slightly. ‘Well, you already know that.’
‘She’s very close to Elise,’ I said, fiddling with my fingers again. ‘It’s good.’ I was tripping over my words, wanting to ask more but unsure if it was my place. ‘For her to have a female role model.’
Alexander swallowed harshly, dropped his fleeting glances. ‘She’s good with her. The questions Elise has started to ask have been…challenging for me. She’s always been desperate to know the answers to everything possible, not just about her mum. Nadia is good at answering in a simple way. Much better than me.’
‘My mum used to say that being a parent reawakens your intellect. You have to think things through more. Provide explanations to aspects of life you take for granted like why do we eat? How can we see?’
‘Or why does the Grief Fairy have such big handwriting?’ he said, his eyes meeting mine, a smile reaching them.
‘Elise has a good point. She must use a bloody humongous pen.’
‘How does she even lift it?’ he replied, smiling softly.
‘What do you think of the Grieving Tree?’ I asked, genuinely interested to hear his thoughts.
‘I think it gives false hope.’
‘For what?’
‘Answers,’ he replied. ‘Who’s writing the letters? We all know it isn’t a fairy. What gives someone the right to give their take on grief and loss to children who are hurting? They must have a God complex.’
‘But you let Elise write to the fairy,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘It makes it easier for me.’ He cleared his throat. Looked embarrassed. ‘Less questions to answer.’
I reached for my bag and took out the letter I’d found at the Grieving Tree that morning. A response to my second letter. I held it up. ‘Elise isn’t the only one who’s been writing to the Grief Fairy.’
He glanced at the paper in my hand. ‘What are you doing?’ A single laugh left his throat. ‘I thought it was for kids.’
‘It probably is, but I’m intrigued.’
‘Intrigued by what?’
‘Who’s behind it,’ I replied.
‘You think the Grief Fairy is going to tell you who they are?’
I opened the letter and sighed. ‘They haven’t so far.’
‘Has it helped?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It’s been therapeutic to write out my thought processes, especially since I’ve been back home.’
‘I guess it’s been hard on you…coming back,’ he said, lightly pushing his leg against mine. The contact was small, but it rang louder than the church bells on a summer wedding day. ‘Memories have a habit of knocking you over when you least expect it.’
‘I’m trying to build new ones,’ I replied honestly.
‘That’s an interesting way to keep sane.’
‘I like the way the Grief Fairy reasons things out. The responses have been simple but so effective. Listen to this.’ I held up the letter and read it out. ‘Memories are like dropping a pebble into a stream. The ramifications are widespread like the rings on the surface of the water. See? It’s simple but you get a picture in your head instantly.’
‘I see that,’ he replied. ‘What else does it say?’
‘Well…I asked if I’d conquered grief.’
‘And the response?’
‘Grief dismantles you, but you can put the pieces back together.’
‘That isn’t an answer,’ he replied sharply. ‘It’s a deflection.’
‘Do you read the responses to Elise’s letters?’ I asked, wondering if he was as critical with the replies to her questions.
‘No.’ I watched him cautiously, expected a follow-up. A smirk, a smile, a grimace. Nothing. Just a blindingly firm no.
‘Who does?’ I asked. ‘Someone must be checking the content, especially if you’re so against it.’
‘I never said I’m against it.’
‘Oh…kay,’ I replied, drawing out the sound.
‘Anyone can write generic responses like that.’ He crossed his leg, tapped on his shoe. ‘Grief is the knot in your favourite necklace.’ I bit back a smile. ‘Grief switches off the light at the end of the tunnel. It isn’t hard,’ he said. ‘I would be far more impressed if whoever wrote these letters outed themselves and spoke openly about their own grief instead of hiding behind wishy-washy quotes they’ve found on Pinterest.’
‘Don’t hold back,’ I laughed, liking this side of him, the glimpses of himself he gave to me that I liked to think no one else saw.
‘It’s true. Tell me who you are and what you’ve been through. Tell me that grief is like having to say you’re fine when you’re screaming inside. That it’s watching your daughter sleep and feeling angry that the person you created her with won’t get to see her in those precious moments, the ones that only belong to parents. Be real and truthful about how messy grief is. Then, I’d have some respect for it.’
‘I’m glad we had this chat,’ I replied. ‘Don’t I feel small now.’ I folded up the letter with false dramatics and dropped it into my bag as I stood. He gave me that low rumble of laughter I was starting to love so much. ‘I should go. I have class in an hour.’
‘Can I walk with you?’ he asked quickly, looking around the church. I nodded and started to walk. Alexander followed two steps behind, quiet and forlorn. I looked back to find him glancing towards the graveyard, his long fingers stroking across his forehead.
‘I’m going that way,’ I said, throwing a thumb to the pathway to my left. ‘Will I see you later?’
‘No. Yes…I don’t know. Nat, we kissed the other night.’ Finally. The true reason he came to find me. His words were quick like they’d been fired from a gun. How long had he been holding on to them? ‘I thought I should ask you how you felt…about the kiss…our kiss.’
Where would I start? Excited. Aroused. Longed for. Does he want the safe answer or the truth that would blow us both to pieces?
‘You were sad and tired,’ I replied, going for the safe option. ‘I’m pretty sure you had a shocking temperature and I failed terribly in my responsibility to get you some medical attention…or an ibuprofen at the very least.’
‘Don’t joke,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I want you serious.’
‘You’d been drinking. It was a mistake.’ I shrugged, the lies burning my throat. I realised I didn’t know him well enough to understand if this was what he wanted to hear, and I was taking a chance.
‘That’s very disappointing,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘Because ever since that kiss I’ve been unable to work at my desk without imagining your beautiful cunt spread open, ready for me to make you come with my mouth.’
‘Jesus,’ I whispered, pressing my legs together to ease the ache, touching my lips to feel the buzz, the same feelings through my body that hadn’t diminished since that night. Alexander gripped my hips and I almost came with the feeling of possession and ownership it created.
‘I’ve been obsessed with the pictures on the wall of my office, imaging it’s your wrists bound, and your beautiful body framed amongst the ropes.’
‘Alexander–’
‘Alex,’ he rasped. ‘I want you to call me Alex.’
He was looking at me with so much heat and intensity that I could imagine a thunderbolt striking through the roof of the church behind us, encasing us in fire. I chanced a look at his devastating face. He was waiting for me. Waiting for me. The man with the moody looks and deep furrows to his forehead, the man with the immense musical talent whom I’d admired from afar, the growly man-bear fighting for his cub, the widower with a grief wound who wanted to let in the healing light.
And the man who wanted to tie me with ropes and beautiful, intriguing knots.
‘You want to bind me?’ I whispered, trying to hold it together, aware of how wrong it was to do this when just a few minutes ago we’d been surrounded by crucifixes, the sad eyes of Jesus, and my awareness of being highly sensitive to the man who was now pressing his body against me. Softly. Deliberately. Enough to tell me I was wanted. Needed. Desired.
A moan escaped his lips. A sound so arousing the ache between my legs intensified. ‘Your body is art.’ He lowered his head; I met him with the hollow of my neck. He fit so perfectly, his skin warm and soft. The jagged pace of his breaths telling me how much he wanted this, how much he needed me. ‘You’re fucking art, Nat. When you dance I’m transfixed.’
‘You’re confused,’ I said, dipping my head to feel the scratch of his stubble on my cheek. We were outside a churchyard, panting like we’d fucked for hours on the pews, his wife’s gravestone a breath away. The woman whose death had broken him, the wife he still pined and longed for. What was I doing? ‘You don’t want me. You want the idea of it.’
‘Isn’t that enough?’ he asked, his ragged breaths increasing, his cock straining under his jeans. ‘The idea?’
‘I don’t want to be a regret,’ I whispered, holding his beautiful face in my hands. I kissed his cheek, stepped back and pushed away the heady thoughts of how a braid of knots would feel between my breasts as Alexander entered me for the first time. ‘I should go…I need space to think…to get away.’
‘Nat.’ He shouted as I made my way towards the road to On Pointe. His chest moved up and down, betraying his outer calmness. ‘Don’t forget…your mind is like a parachute. It works best when it’s open.’
I bit my lip, took in the words yet carried on walking, the warmth of early summer hitting my face. I quickened my steps and held onto my breath, wanting to get far away from Mum and Bec, Alex’s wife, ghosts and guilt and most of all him.
Parachute, parachute, parachute.
I was frightened to admit that my mind was more than just open. It was wide and reaching.
But I wasn’t sure if the parachute would bloom open in time to break the inevitable fall.
16
Nat
I wondered if the pain of unmet desire felt the same as the pain of being bound by rope, or if the two could even compare. I’d left Alex confused, scared,
but needy. My breathing hadn’t measured out. My head was wrecked. I was tight, and my limbs were fuzzy. Images of the ropes in the pictures, the curve of the woman’s body, of me on his bed before him all melted and merged together.
I had to dance. I had to shrug off the energy the only way I knew how. Grabbing onto the barre with my hands, I leant forward, looking at my flushed face in the mirror. I’d changed into a black leotard and a soft skirt with a deep slit to my thigh for easy movement, throwing a bright pink wrap over it, the material almost translucent. I eased my head from left to right, straightening out the kinks before stretching, feeling the pull down my spine. A tingle spread through my body. I’d had an awakening and it both thrilled and shocked me. Something that had been drowsy and sleeping inside of me was now twirling and free. It created a warm feeling under the shock. Although it was new, I understood clearly that it was a feeling I wanted to last.
‘May I play for you?’
I turned to find Alex standing in the doorway. His cello case across his back. I watched as he put it down beside him, unfastened it slowly and took the instrument out with precision. He closed the door with a swing of his foot and sat down on the bench behind him.
‘I’ll play, if you dance for me.’
‘No,’ I breathed out. Gasping and unsteady.
‘I want to play the music you inspired.’ He was calm and soft. I wondered what was going on inside him. A musician so used to large crowds and audiences but now…there was just me.
‘You want to play me your music?’
‘Your music.’
He started to play, head down and composed but brilliantly alert. He created a deep baritone sound with a softness in his strokes. My body moved on instinct, a slave to the notes, a slave to him. He lifted his bowed head, the familiar stance in which he played, watching me, a rumble in his eyes, a pain caused by a desire to touch but a need to watch just as much. He clenched his teeth, he closed his eyes, he bit the corner of his mouth and I danced closer, purposefully so, wanting to get to him and reach the parts he hadn’t allowed me to view yet.
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