February
13, 2017
Greetings
from the smitten,
Julius
had stopped pretending he was an out of work actor. Now he was an out of work busboy. The only redeeming part of his unemployment
was his side gig, busking in the park as a living statue.
Each
afternoon he would go to the park and drop his box as close as he could to the
fountains, where all of the tourists eventually passed. By the time the sun set he would clear fifty
bucks.
Julius
would pull out a costume from his trunk, then paint his face and hands, and for
most of the afternoon he would stand perfectly still on a plywood box and
resist the urge to spit on the tourists who taunted him. They would stand there and mock him, and when
he wouldn’t break, they put a dollar in the bucket in front of him. Sometimes loose change; it all added up.
It
was not acting. But it was better than
clearing dirty dishes in ‘Kaos’ or whatever they were calling that hole in the
wall they told him not to come back to. On
this day, Julius was dressed as Cupid.
It was not a great idea, took so long to do the body paint and he had to
borrow a bow and a quiver, and paint it white. He felt a little self-conscious
in toga. But he knew the tourists would
love it. Especially today. There would be a lot of pictures, a lot of
dollars.
No
one came close for three hours. For the
first time in what seemed like forever he was going to lose money standing
still. Then, out of the corner of his
eye he saw a woman walking toward him.
She
was petite, moved gracefully, like a dancer, as if her life was being
choreographed one step at a time. He
couldn’t turn his head to watch her so he was forced to let her reveal herself. She was barefoot. Her dress was some filmy, silken fabric; the
word ‘diaphanous’ came to mind, a word he had never used in conversation. Her hair was auburn, braided close to her
neck. He felt his heart begin to pick
up. She was incredible.
She
stood close enough for him to see the texture of her skin, the almond shape of
her eyes. He waited, trying not to stare
at her, keeping his focus soft so he stayed inanimate, in character. He was not the god of desire, he was a statue of the god of desire. Suddenly his mouth was dry.
He
watched her looking at him. He could see
a thin necklace around her neck, a small heart dangling just below the tiny
hollow of her throat. Where his lips
belonged. He waited, willing himself to
be still, while everything else in him told him to move.
She
stretched up, brought her face within inches of his. He could feel her breath on his skin when she
spoke: “It’s painful isn’t it? To be
right there, so close to life, and unable to do what your soul screams
for.” She spoke softly, only he would
hear. In the timbre of her voice was
something primal that plucked at him in a place he hadn’t known about.
Julius
felt himself trembling. He could feel
her eyes exploring his. He realized he
was holding his breath. And then it was
too much; he blinked. And then looked into her eyes. She smiled.
“There you are.” she whispered.
Julius
could not move. He was not pretending to
be a statue; he was frozen by her, not wanting to do something that would distract
her, or cause her to leave. He was not
thinking about any of this, just mesmerized by the life in her eyes, a vibrancy
that pulled him out of the world and into just this moment, which became his
future.
Time
stopped mattering. They stood in place
in the middle of the plaza and the world swirled around them, and it was just a
reflection of the life they created for in each other’s eyes. He felt something welling between them, a
mixture of pain and joy, something he could only equate to music for some
reason. It was being created right in
that moment. He knew she was smiling,
could see the lines forming around her eyes.
She took a deep breath, breathed him in.
And
then she was gone. Slipped from him like
water.
It
took a moment for him to recover, and he looked across the plaza she was
already beyond the fountains, heading toward the alley. Julius straightened, realizing where he was,
and dropped his bow and leapt off the box to go after her.
He
ran, stiff legged from standing for hours, into the alley. He could see her moving through the crowd,
thought he saw her look over her shoulder at him. How could she be so far away? She was not running, just moving effortlessly
through the throngs of tourists coming the other way.
His
heart was hammering. He saw her once
more and then lost her. Now he was
frantic, pushing people aside, breathless as he fought after a glimpse of her. He searched the street for an hour, finally
realizing why people were staring at him, remembered he was wearing only a toga. He walked back to the plaza and saw someone
had stolen his tip bucket.
The
next day he walked the alley again, dressed like an out of work busboy. He hadn’t slept, couldn’t stop thinking of
her, hating himself for not saying something or asking her name…anything but
just standing there like a statue.
He
circled the block, thinking that maybe she worked near here. The second time around he found himself in
front of the art museum. Without pausing
he turned in and pushed through the large glass doors. He strolled through the front lobby and into
the halls, looking from side to side, not at the art but the other people
there, searching for her among the docents, the gift shop clerks, the art
lovers. There was no reason to expect
her there, but there was no reason not to.
He
moved into the next gallery and stopped, all of him stopped. He tried to swallow and could not. She was there, in a pool of sun from the
skylight above, luminescent, filled with the same energy he felt when he first
saw her. Julius felt his knees weaken,
and he lowered himself onto a bench.
‘Dancing
Maiden’ the small sign said. ‘Alberto
Cambi. Italian. 19th Century’.
She
stood there, draped in light, her dress, the thinnest possible shape that
marble could take, flowing over her like a second skin. Her hair, now Carrara white, like the rest of
her, twisted into a braid against her neck.
She was smiling. Barefoot, in
mid-step, he could sense the movement, he could see her dancing, see her
gliding as she had first moved into his sight.
It
took incredible effort to stand again, as if the earth conspired to keep him in
place in front of her. He moved closer,
unaware of the people who stepped back to make room. He stood inches from her, saw the tiny heart
around her neck, saw the shape of her eyes.
Longed for the color that had been there, where now was just the carved
white, the fine lines that sprung from her smile etched more than a hundred years
without changing.
But
even in the cold marble he could sense her.
He felt the same vibration, the same warmth he knew from the day
before. He could feel her breath, he
could hear the sensual cello stroke in her words. And he said: “It’s painful isn’t
it? To be right there, so close to life, and unable to do what your soul
screams for.”
He
leaned a little closer. Looked into her carved
eyes, felt the synchronicity again, saw them look back at him.
“There
you are.” they said as one.
Hope
this finds you waiting for love,
David
Copyright
© 2017 David Smith
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