And Night Falls on This One

Classical music plays; gentle, flowing, like raindrops dripping from plush leaves, a tear trickling down a cheek, wind tickling the face, a thousand pounds of joy crushing your chest, forcing its way out into the cool breeze.

A man writes. He ignores her as she stands behind him in his ancient oak chair. He is bearded, gruff, the façade of coldness masking his passionate intensity. This man is full of life, feeling, love, passion…but not of her.

She stares out into the garden, through the glass, the sun piercing through the branches and leaves of the surrounding apple trees.

Moments later, she has left his side, walking amongst the marble fountain, plush foliage and bright sunlight, her bare feet smacking against the cold cement slabs, tiny leaves and pieces of dirt stuck to her soles. Her long nightgown flows with the wind, white like the rushing foam of the sea, her thick curly hair billowing in the breeze, stretched out behind her like reins, controlled by the sky.

The music is pulsing, reaching a climax, the notes bouncing and colliding together violently, smashing into one another like piercing hot ball bearings. Her feet step up onto the ledge, her arms outstretched like a swan or a bird ready for flight; transition, change.

The man’s pen scribbles furiously along the page, reaching the bottom, his plump hand tearing it from the upper hinges of the notepad, the paper fluttering to the ground, resting amongst the others, the force of ideas and predicted genius, scattered, piling high in disarray.

His hand and pen are fueled by internal workings, a pulsing stream of joy and melancholy, melded together, the pictures, sounds, smells forming faster than the fingers can respond. This is fury. Love. Naked passion.

She turns back from the ledge, eyes over her shoulder, through the glass doors, tiny square white boxes with glass within, to the hunched figure, shoulder’s bobbing, tears dripping from his cheeks, the music pulsing and slapping and tearing the thoughts from his soul. It is a race, a war against time, a twenty minute requiem.

There is no sorrow on her side of the glass. Just an impulse based upon the moment, perhaps inspired by the sun, a dozen crashing cymbals, or the rain-soaked leaves that filled the garden. The act is impulsive, yet definite, absolute without regret.