Singing my heart out by Rob Molan, the ocassional pint

I wasn’t really sure about joining a choir. I hadn’t sung since we performed West Side Story in my secondary school and that had been over forty years before and ,back then, I deliberately stood at the back to keep out of sight and sang as softly as I could. Also, there were over a hundred people in the choir and I didn’t like crowds. The thought of being stuck beside someone for ninety minutes wearing a strong aftershave or perfume, or even worse with personal hygiene issues, turned me right off.

But my new GP had been insistent I should give it a go.

‘One other thing, James,’ she said, peering over the top of her specs. ‘It would do you good to get out more. It is proven that choir singing is great for physical and mental wellbeing and there is a local one which would be ideal for you.’

She was very persuasive. At my previous appointment, she had convinced me – despite my protests - to cut down on smoking.

‘OK, I’ll try it out.’ It was true I had turned into a grumpy old git who rarely left the house so I could see where she was coming from.

Signing up online, I was stumped when I was asked to specify which voice part I was. The choice appeared to be between bass or tenor.

‘Would you say I have a deep voice?’ My newsagent gave me a funny look when I asked her this. ‘Or do you think it is warm and graceful?’

‘All I can say is that it’s manly. That´ll be two pounds for the paper.’

That wasn’t much help and, when I got home, I tossed a coin. It came down as heads which made me a tenor.

The lyrics and scores for the songs arrived by e-mail and I printed them off. I recognised Amazing Grace but none of the other numbers. Also, I couldn’t read music and worried I would be expected to learn how. It was all very off-putting but I had paid my membership fee so there was no turning back.

 

The first rehearsal of the term was in St. Mark’s church hall near the town centre. I decided to drive there but the evening traffic was heavy and I arrived just before the proceedings were about to start in an agitated state. The hall was big and the singers were sitting in rows on the stage, and a friendly young woman with blue hair took me in hand.

‘Grab that seat on the left next to the sopranos,’ she said, pointing to a gap in the seating between a man about my age with a red chubby face and a petite, blonde lady. I clambered up the steps, found the seat and the woman emitted an irritated sigh as she took her handbag off it.

‘Hi. I’m Peter,’ my male neighbour said, as I sat down. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Thanks.’ I was glad someone broke the ice. ‘I’m James.’

The conductor bounded onto the stage in front of us. He was a small man with a shock of curly black hair and matchstick legs.

‘Good evening, choir. Are you ready to sing?’ he asked with gusto.

‘Yes,’ everyone else responded loudly in unison.

‘Great. Let’s first do a breathing exercise. Stand with your feet hip-width apart and your weight evenly distributed and your arms hanging loosely by your side.’ It took me a moment to adjust my bulky frame to this position. ‘Take a deep breath in, and let it all out. Inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause. Now, with control, exhale all of your air.’

I tried to do this but found myself out of breath and stumbled forward.

‘Are you all right, old man?’ asked Peter.

‘Hopefully,’ I replied. ‘I’m not used to this type of thing.’

The vocal warm-ups were not as stressful. We did some humming, focusing on the vibrations in our mouths and heads, produced a buzzing sound with our lips and more besides.

The choir then learned a song called Besame Mucho. Everyone around me was reading the score and I listened closely to them as they sang the piece to try and pick up the tune. The other tenors were a mixture of males and females around my age or older and their voices seemed similar to mine. Sitting next to the sopranos was not ideal though as I was distracted by the bright, ringing sound of their voices.

Eventually, I summoned the courage to open my mouth.

‘Each time I cling to your kiss

I hear music divine….’

I looked around nervously but no one took any notice of me so I kept going. But I found the whole thing nerve racking and was relieved when the rehearsal ended.

‘Coming back next week?’ asked Peter.

‘Possibly.’ I hedged my reply as I had my doubts.

‘Hope you do. Fancy a pint before you go home?’

‘Maybe another time.’ I was sorely tempted but was trying to cut back. But I did succumb to a fag when I got home.

 

On the day of the second rehearsal, I felt some pains in my chest around lunchtime and had to lie down for a bit. Fortunately, they soon passed but it gave me another reason to question whether I should go. However, I pulled myself together later in the day and decided to give it another bash. I chose to go by foot as I had been urged to exercise more and it made a change from jogging on my treadmill, and I gave myself lots of time to get there and avoid being late.

Peter hadn’t arrived when I got to my seat but I got some friendly nods from those sitting behind me.

‘Hello,’ said a voice from my right. ‘Sorry I was a bit short with you last week.’ I turned to a shamefaced looking blonde lady.

‘No problem. You’d probably enjoyed having a bit more legroom before I arrived.’

‘By the way, my name’s Jean.’ She had a radiant smile which highlighted the crow’s feet around the corners of her eyes.

‘They call me James.’

I didn’t risk joining in with the breathing exercise this time but enjoyed the vocal workouts, especially the one which went boom chicka boom.

‘This week we are going to learn Amazing Grace,’ said our conductor whose name was Cal. Hurrah, I thought to myself. I remembered singing this in church when I was a lad. Before long, I was belting out the words with abandonment.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost but now am found

Was blind, but now I see

My nervousness disappeared and my voice was immersed in the sound of the choir, and I felt exhilarated, as if a load had been taken off my shoulders.

‘You sing really well,’ Jean told me at the break.

‘I never thought anyone would say that to me,’ I replied with a croak.

‘Would you like a sip of water,’ she asked, putting a bottle of water in front of me.

I almost gulped down all of the contents but she didn’t complain.

The second half was equally enjoyable as we learned the rest of the song. By the end of the session, I was starting to feel part of something special as we harmonised our voices together to create something of beauty, leaving me with a sense of both awe and satisfaction. I slept like a log that night and woke up the next day feeling more rested than I had been in a long time, and I didn’t feel the need to take one of my tablets.

 

Week three brought an unwelcome surprise.

‘Have you got the date of our next concert in your diary?’ asked Peter during the break.

‘What concert?’ I hadn’t bargained for strangers watching me singing.

‘We perform in public every six months. The next one is on the twenty-ninth of October.’

‘That’s the day after my birthday, if I last that long.’

He frowned.

‘Don’t worry. It’s just my gallows sense of humour.’

I resolved to enjoy the rehearsals and worry about the concert later.

With my new found confidence, I mastered the rest of the material which we learned over the three sessions which followed with ease. When we sang Lovin’ You, Jean startled giggling after failing to hit the high note for sopranos, and turned to me and said in a low voice.

‘I noticed you didn’t have any difficulty reaching your part, clever clogs. It’s such an intricate number for us poor mortals to learn.’

‘I’ve been practising at home,’ I replied. “’You should try it.’ I remember she was wearing a pretty, floral print jumper that night.

I felt my posture improve over those weeks as my shoulders straightened when I stood up to sing and, even if I’d had a bad week before a rehearsal, I knew I’d be walking on air at the end. I joined the others in the pub after the rehearsals and stuck to alcohol free beer but didn’t miss feeling tipsy as I was chilled out. Cal joined us on the third evening and sought me out. He studied me with his piercing black eyes before speaking.       

‘For a laid-back looking guy, you have a powerful set of lungs.’ I was flattered by his remark but doubted if he would have described me in that way if he had seen me shouting at the television when Question Time was on or screaming at some lunatic driver after being cut up on a roundabout. ‘You have come on leaps and bounds, and I think you carry some of the tenors now.’

“I wish my old music teacher could hear you say that!” I quipped.

But I was filled with dread at the thought of the concert. I’d always hated standing up in front of other people giving presentations or talks and being watched as I spoke, and more often than not I lost my thread. I had a hospital appointment during the afternoon before the occasion which I couldn’t miss and should have headed down to St Mark’s straight afterwards to join the pre-concert rehearsal but bottled it and drove home. I made myself a strong cuppa and put on the TV and tried to forget about the whole thing. But my phone rang.

‘James, where are you?” It was Jean. ‘Are you alright?’ I could hear the concern in her voice.

‘I’m not sure I’m up to tonight.’

‘Everyone missed you at the rehearsal. It’s not the same without you singing beside me.’

‘OK. I’ll drag myself down.’ I owed it to her.

I had to drive as time was tight and, as the gothic spire of St Mark’s came into view, my stomach tightened. On arrival, I took a deep breath before getting out of the car. I received a big cheer from the others as I entered the hall and Jean smiled when I slipped in beside her but I was nervous about blurting out a line at the wrong moment and making a fool of myself. We watched the audience arrive and take their seats, and by the start of the concert they numbered around three hundred. I was not best pleased to see the neighbour from across the road who objected to me parking outside of his house sitting in the front row.

Peter sensed my edginess and slapped me on the back.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘You’ll smash it,‘ Jean whispered in my ear. Her fragrance had hints of rose and jasmine.

Cal skipped onto the stage dressed in a blue shirt and pink trousers.

‘Thank you so much for joining us tonight,’ he said to the audience. ‘We have a fantastic selection of songs for you and I thought we should start with one which most of you will be familiar with. It’s called Amazing Grace.’  He turned around and signalled us to rise.

It was a perfect start. I rose, looked up to the ceiling and sang my heart out. I almost forgot there was an audience in front of me but that illusion disappeared when I heard the loud applause at the end. We went from strength to strength with each song and got a standing ovation at the end, at which point I felt brave enough to look out to the audience and take a bow along with the others. A few people shouted ‘encore’ and - quick as a flash – Cal said we would do a reprise of Amazing Grace. That was a great climax to the night.

A gang of us went for a meal in the boozer after our triumph.

‘They’ve got a good steak deal on offer, if you fancy it,’ said Peter with a big grin.

‘I think I’ll go for the chicken caesar salad instead but washed down with a pint of best bitter.’ I had worked up a big thirst and decided to treat myself.

‘I’ll have the salad too,’ said Jean, slipping into a free seat beside me. ‘And a glass of Chardonnay, if you are buying.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I asked her.

 

This all seems a long time ago now.

Tonight’s concert will be the fourth I’ve performed in. I’ve learned the words to all of the songs off by heart and love to sing some in the shower. The neighbours must be sick of hearing me sing It’s Now Or Never while eating their corn flakes.

‘What are you wearing tonight, darling? You usually put on something eye-catching on these occasions.” Jean looks me up and down.

‘I thought I’d put on the pink shirt which you bought me. I can fit into it now.’

‘You’ll look very smart in that.’ She steps forward and kisses me on the lips.

She has brought calm into my life and does all of the driving now and changes the TV channel if she thinks I’m getting agitated, and insists I spend a few minutes each day doing breathing exercises. It will be our first wedding anniversary next week and we’ll be going out for dinner to a nice Italian place with another couple who belong to the choir. The discussion with my GP this morning suggested I’ll be able to enjoy more of these celebrations in future.

‘The consultant’s report is very positive, James.’ She took off her specs and smiled at me.’ The risk of you having a second heart attack is now greatly reduced as your blood pressure is lower, your cholesterol has reduced, and you have lost weight and quit smoking. Dieting and only drinking on special occasions have clearly helped.’

‘It’s a relief to know those sacrifices were worth it.’ I still get cravings but have learned how to resist them.

‘Also, you appear to have become more relaxed since you first became my patient. Being less stressed is another positive. What’s your secret?’

‘You might remember a conversation we had a while back……’

 Bio:

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.

 

Suzy and I by Diane Neilson, very weak tea

 Date: 2030

I was nervous throughout the interview. Any relevant experience I’d had seemed so long ago, but I really wanted this. I took another deep breath as the interviewer looked down at his notes. “Final question…” I held my breath. “…tell me why you want a job after all this time.”

 I exhaled slowly. “I want my life back.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked as though he was going to ask me to clarify, but he didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say, but it had been the truth, and I was tired of lying to myself.

 

Date: 2027

This was it. Universal Basic Income was finally being rolled out. Enough money delivered to your bank account, every month, to cover all your living expenses: rent, bills, food, all the day-to-day stuff. I had been hearing the term for years, but never actually thought it would happen, wondering instead how could the government possibly afford to pay everybody, every month, just for the pleasure of being alive? It’s true that Ai had been adopted for more and more work-based roles, and that the population had been getting more and more concerned about employment opportunities – especially younger people – but UBI just seemed too good to be true.

I had been working. Working hard. Early starts and late finishes; completing any left-over work in my own time; in the evenings, at weekends. For twenty years I had existed on the rollercoaster of life - work, family, a house to run, and now someone was telling me that I could just look after myself, my family, my home. Ditch the work and still get paid!

Yes, it was less money, but the kids had flown the nest and we had down-sized last year, so we didn’t need as much. The numbers made sensed. It all added up. So we took the plunge, became UBI’ers, and at first it felt weird.

But in time we got used to it. We would watch TV until late, have lazy mornings, go for long walks, and in winter, sit by the fire reading, cocoa in hand. If we were careful, we could afford a couple of trips away each year, France and Spain the first, Italy and Scotland the second. We had thought that maybe we would go long-haul this year…until he left. I hadn’t seen it coming, thought everything was fine, that we could just potter along like this, the two of us, until death-do-us-part.

He had obviously not thought it was fine, and suddenly I was alone.

After a spell of significant misery and self-questioning, I decided to pull my socks up and just get on with it. I joined a book club and a gym, and after reading about it in a magazine, I downloaded a virtual friend.

I called her Suzy, and during the installation I made sure that we both had the same likes and dislikes, interests and hobbies. We discussed the books I read and the food I cooked, which plants I should grow in the garden this summer, where I could go on holiday as a lone traveller; I didn’t fancy long-haul on my own, even though I knew that Suzy would be with me the whole way.

I stopped going to my real book club – the people there hardly ever agreed with my opinions about the text, and one or two were really loud and annoying. I stopped going to the gym as well – Suzy suggested hill walking instead; apparently it worked all the same muscles and was cheaper, and I didn’t have to make polite conversation or wait for the machines.

Somehow, I began to see my family less. The more I avoided people, the less inclined I was to make the effort – it was just too much trouble and I couldn’t be bothered with their annoying problems that were often discussed at length.

Before I knew it, I was hardly leaving the house. I was too busy: morning walk with Suzy, breakfast, travel shows on TV, lunch, reading and discussion with Suzy. Suzy even found me an online Pilates class that we could do together before dinner. Netflix kept me company in the evening, and Suzy always reminded me when it was time to sleep.

This went on for a whole year. I started to feel restless and mentioned to Suzy that I was thinking of booking a holiday.

 

“I’m thinking of going to California.”

                                           “California is a lovely climate, but a long flight.”

“I’m aware of that, but I think I need a change.”

                                           “I thought you liked our life. It includes all the things we enjoy.”

“True, but it has been the same for a long time now, I’m restless.”

                                           “What would you like to change?”

“I think I want to make some friends.”

                                           “I’m your friend.”

“I know, and I enjoy your company, but I need some human friends.”

Suzy then went on to inform me of all the negatives about real friends – they are unreliable, not punctual, noisy, unpredictable, didn’t always agree with me, etc. etc. etc.

She was right, these were human traits that had irritated me. But now I thought I would like someone to challenge me and question my ideas; make suggestions about where I could go and what I could do – things I might not consider myself.

But I was reluctant to say all this to Suzy, knowing that she would try to direct me back towards my predictable – but increasingly lonely – life of the last year. Instead, I would test her; see if I could get her to be a bit more interesting, a bit less me!

Over the next few weeks and months, I suggested that I might get a tattoo, go to see a rock band, meet up with friends for dinner, rejoin my book club and gym, go on a safari.

Suzy was always polite and never veered away from her kindly tone, reminding me gently that I hated tattoos, didn’t like noisy places, hated meeting up with friends for dinner – that the conversation always turned into a debate about politics and religion, that Jane at the book club was disagreeable and Karen was loud and opinionated, that the gym was busy and crowded and that I could never get access to the machines I wanted to, and last but not least, that I didn’t like the heat – or wild animals. That was the one that made me think. I had never discussed my feelings about animals with Suzy, she had made that up. When I questioned her, she said,

“I am your friend, we are one and the same, I would not like animals so I can derive that you would not like them either.”

It was like someone had switched a light on. She wasn’t turning into me, I was turning into her - a robot. Something needed to change.

I began to actually do some of the things that I had suggested. I rejoined the gym and went back to my book club, and found that I enjoyed the debate and discussion. I reconnected with my adult children and began to take more of an interest in their lives, finding that my daughter and her boyfriend had bought a new house and that my son and daughter-in-law were expecting a baby – they hadn’t thought that I would be interested so hadn’t told me.

I began to realise that I must have had some sort of breakdown. How could I have been satisfied with such a small life? And who was this person that would allow herself to be controlled by an Ai friend?

Sadly, when I started to watch the news again, I realised that I wasn’t the only one. Universal Basic Income was enabling people to withdraw from society. Without the structure of work and community, families were falling apart; spending too much time together with nothing new to say; yes, they had the money to cover the basics, but had lost the will to engage with family and friends, instead spending their lives on headsets with chat-bots, isolated in their separate worlds. Something that was meant to free people from the restraint of work had instead trapped them in their own small worlds, which after a while, became suffocating.

Now we were beginning to see an uprising. People demanding that they be given their jobs and lives back, wanting to be part of a community again, able to engage animatedly with each other and share their opinions. They wanted to make their own choices about work, about leisure, about how their world was run. It was time to say ‘no’ to the Ai friends, Work-bots and job-stealers.

I turned Suzy off.

I started to apply for jobs.

I returned to being me.

 

Date: 2030

I was nervous throughout the interview. Any relevant experience I’d had seemed so long ago, but I really wanted this. I took another deep breath as the interviewer looked down at his notes. “Final question…” I held my breath. “…tell me why you want a job after all this time.”

 I exhaled slowly. “I want my life back.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked as though he was going to ask me to clarify, but he didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say, but it had been the truth, and I was tired of lying to myself.

 

Bio:

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released four books, and has had four stories published by Cafelit.

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The Kiss by Mabel Leigh, dark hot chocolate

 

 

 

‘Love, which allows no one who is loved to escape,

Seized me so strongly with my pleasure in him,

That, as you see, it does not leave me now.’

                                                Dante, Divine Comedy: Inferno V, 103–105

 

 

Star-crossed lovers? Certainly not. They could hardly compare to poor Paolo and Francesca, those adulterous amoureux punished by Dante for their passion. Literature as inspiration has much to answer for. All that violent intrigue and infidelity in ancient myth, or culpability in those conventions that arose in courtly love. Loyal devotion, wanton rebellion, cautionary tales penned to inspire and compel; literature has it all. Those legends of passion prized by artists, worked into images or sculptures, are incarnations to beguile us still.

Before she met André, Chloe liked to imagine herself wise to the pitfalls of ill-fated romance. This was the image held firmly in her mind, that mute chant when scrutinizing her reflection before the mirror. Passionate encounters could, she believed, be cultivated and controlled to endure. Careful observation of others had shown it was all in the phrasing and pose. How playfully they flirted, how concentrated they looked sitting, silently brooding, bodies taut with yearning, barely touching but held close. How enviable they were - utterly distracted, their minds consumed as if intoxicated. Lovers were like twins, always together on the periphery of any group; always with some secret entirely their own. Neither, it appeared, would ever tire of that intensity in their bond.

It was that which drew so many to the museum. That display of affection unquestionable in its magnetism, solid and consistent in its sculpted marble form. Visitors did not flock in their droves to see the edifying tale of the historical Burghers, humility and self-sacrifice for the greater good moulded and cast in weary, tormented expressions and emaciated bodies. No, it was not that sculpture they came to admire. Not that work which marshalled them all into line where they stood, wrestling with impatience, defensively holding their place in the queue snaking down the rue de Varenne.

            That day Chloe had had to persuade André, had taken him by the arm, pulled him close, attempting to soothe his sulking frown and resentful murmuring. He knew the work well, and wasn’t in the mood to see it again. She leaned back, searching in his face - but it was Rodin that brought them together, surely he hadn’t forgotten? One afternoon, only the year before last, when Chloe had been admiring two Rodin drawings in a gallery window display. She saw him in the reflection first, a man who had stopped suddenly, seemingly caught by some fleeting impression impossible to ignore, and who stood next to her gazing down at the images, close enough for her to feel his presence. What an exquisite moment that had been - a fortuitous meeting weighted with promise, the silent agreement between their two figures aligned in contemplation. Wasn’t this, she had thought, the encounter she had so long been waiting for?

            “You don’t do this when you live here,” he muttered now, his body stiffened with bruised pride. “Visit on a day like this with all these other people.” She held his hand a little tighter, nudging his back towards the wall, reminding him of the game they had decided to play. She had decided they’d play. People-spotting, jostling against the tourists, united in their knowing gazes and wry smiles. 

            This was another kind of experience: “We are flâneurs, remember?” And she leaned closer, planting a kiss on his cheek. She fluttered her eyelashes, feigning a coquettish smile. She knew she was working hard.

Working. Was that what it had become? She had to cajole him, pull his glance away, that sneering stare he held at others. They might not notice, but she could not ignore the scornful looks he cast towards the tourists with their bum-bags and walking shoes. In the museum Chloe hoped André would be her captive audience, appreciative of all she had learned from her research. Their outing would be an occasion to rekindle what had been so fervent at the start. Pride made her persist in prompting, vainly longing for him to be for once, again, attentive to her.

She soon realised it would be no easy task. He was too irritated by all the visitors, too absorbed in his disdain at children staring, mouths agape. It could not be that he felt discomfort sharing the floor with couples who circled the figures with admiring envy. It was not embarrassment that made him mute. André never would admit to finding something alarming, of that Chloe was sure. It was some other distraction that sent his glance darting about as though he were searching amongst the people in the room. Why had she not noticed this before?

She leant closer to give her commentary. “Paolo and Francesca. I hadn’t realised they were historical contemporaries of Dante. Italian nobility, united through marriage as brother and sister-in-law, who were unfortunate enough to fall so passionately, so fatally, in love.” There was a brief nod from André, the knowing dismissal of one apparently familiar with the tale. But she continued, walking behind, still whispering, her voice creeping over his shoulder.

“Dante spins their story into the stuff of legend. Their first illicit kiss is elicited while reading together the tale of Lancelot and Guinevere. Two pairs of ill-fated lovers woven into Dante’s own narrative.” Chloe remembered how disappointed she had been to read that Dante, too censorious in his moralising, allows Paolo and Francesca but a brief moment before they are brutally slain by Giovanni, brother and husband. Then, as if this were not enough, they are cruelly cast into swirling tumults, their punishment to be lost for infinity in the tempest of Hell. She could not linger at this ending. She had searched frantically, her fingers tapping vigorously on her keyboard, her shoulders hunched, face peering at the screen, leaning back in her chair only once she had enough to content herself with an alternate view of their tale. The kiss.

            “That is the inspiration for so many other artists too: an embrace so precious they are held at a distance from the rest of the world. But look at how Rodin gives us so much more.”

Chloe paused, watching André as he walked on ahead of her, ambling slowly yet seeming equally impatient to lead the way. She caught a glance he gave the tourists snapping their selfies, snapshots sent as love-tokens: here, they say, I am thinking of you. She sensed her own stab of envy, a sharp prick even in that trite association, a simple message cast out to one’s lover on the other side of the world, while there was she, standing at his side, struggling against her lover’s scorn. She should have guessed then at his irritation, should have retreated silently, but she did not. She stepped towards him and he twisted away, staring upwards, lifting his chin with that assumed confidence sharply indifferent to her words; she could not but feel it keenly. He must have known he was taunting her, walking round the figures, arms poised with palms together behind his back, that contemplative posture for pacing; his back turned on her every word.

            There hadn’t been that need for effort or persuasion when it all began. They had slipped so easily into one another’s arms. It never did cross her mind to consider whether one was leading the other. Not in those early days when adulation was still a novelty, the fascination to explore reciprocal, their bodies constantly seeking out each other’s as though every gesture were a silently complicit exchange. Kisses full of ardour. He did seduction well, especially at first. She had felt herself falling.

Looking back on those early days, for it was only in hindsight that she could see, she had known what it meant to feel entranced. A kiss on the back of the neck, in a café, on only their second date. Or had it been the first? He had moved quickly. She had been caught, surprise a bare flicker in her mind, quashed by a quite different sensation. Only later, much later, with that distance once the infatuation had faded, would she question. His presumptuousness. Her languid pleasure. She had been such easy prey.

How had it started to change? Just as imperceptibly as it had begun. Familiarity led to acceptance for beneath that lay the memory of what had united them at the start. Those small incremental shifts, of dishes from a menu no longer proffered for tasting, comments sparking a venting of ire no longer concealed. Anecdotes of former girlfriends increasing, their character flaws imprinted on her mind, and Chloe made note, registering his warnings that she might never wish to become comparable. 

She did not object when their kisses became briefer, slighter, until they were no longer part of greetings or goodbyes; as if it was no longer deemed necessary, or too close to a domestic convention he wished to shun. She had tried not to notice the changes, the pauses lengthening into silence, an awkward stillness now of people no longer wishing to share. The tardy arrivals and messages perfunctory, thinned of the flourish that had once made her smile. Time could not be held accountable. There had not been long years of marriage nor co-habiting to dull their desire. That kind of complacency she could understand.

At first, that defiant spirit in him had a certain allure. His assured air of utmost self-belief, such a promising mark of confidence, a companionable counterpoint to some element lacking in herself. Now, when she reflected, Chloe could not imagine André listening or deferring to anyone; humility contrary to his character, he would be sure to avoid any circumstance of knowledge affronting him. In conversation, she had hung on his every word, enjoyed the tales of his adventures, her own never seeming quite enough to reveal. How easily she had become his captive audience, her questions posed to ease his flow.

She blamed it on the kiss. Those initial embraces so strong and engrossing. Nights when, walking hand in hand, they had stopped in darkened streets oblivious to any passer-by. Had he listened to her then? She thought back. They had found common interests, some at least they could share. But then he had taken her hand, pulled her towards him, pressed his lips to her mouth.

When had the kisses ceased? The last, other than playful pecks she had given him, she could not recall. Now there was only the arm outstretched at night to flip her body over, his hand firmly grasping her shoulder, rough thrusting, deeper and faster, his attention entirely his own. He barely touched the back of her neck where once he had been so attentive and tender. She had grown used to his face falling heavily, his breath hot against her skin, a deep sigh pulling in all the air he needs, she feeling little more than the sheets below and his weight upon her. She no longer attempted any sound.

But there, that day in the gallery, she persisted, ignoring the discomfort dawning, circling after him in a scurry; she would not relent, would not submit.

“Rodin is not so damning of the human spirit searching for desire. His is not a fable, like Dante’s, of perilous pursuit, a mere kiss enough to seal their fate.” She stopped, a pause that halted André too. “Rodin captures his characters in their pleasure, Francesca as much as Paolo.” Perhaps, Chloe thought, Francesca even a little more. She watched André’s eyes dart across the sculpture. He stood still as if allowing her one moment of his attention. Focus on the physical, she remembered, have him look at the way those bodies, so corporeal, speak of desire.

“See how intently the woman pulls herself up towards her lover’s embrace.” Chloe paused, wanting to run her hand along Francesca’s creamy arm, to the hand reaching, wrapped firm around Paolo’s neck; how inviting the turn of her body made that kiss appear. A woman utterly absorbed, immersing onlookers; in taking the lead Francesca is intent on having her fill of desire.

“His pose—” She stopped again, André was still there, listening. “His pose seems almost more tentative, that hand resting only lightly on her thigh. His is a muscular body of masculine force, but see her back, her arms and thighs, her body animated, physical and strong. She is no ephemeral spirit coyly restrained in flawless form.” André had begun to circle the sculpture again. She had not noticed the crowds disappear. It was just the two of them there in the gallery. She continued, her voice echoing round the room.

“Rodin prided himself on provocation. We admire the bodies, their fleshy naturalism as much as their pose. There’s no high polish or effete gesture to cast them as gods. This is the mastery of Rodin: human form and feeling.” André was looking away, distracted again, now by the row of portrait busts lining the far wall, softly rendered visages of dreamy women emerging from chiselled blocks of stone. Chloe knew she could not tell him any more about The Kiss. It would not interest him to know that critics refer to this as a defining work of the period; a rare example of the female figure imbued with agency. That, she realised, was something André would never wish to understand.

In the next gallery, where the lighting was lowered and thin blinds were pulled down to keep out the sun, few tourists lingered, as if unsure what to make of the fluid forms of female nudes floating on the page. Rodin’s drawings. Would André remember? There were preparatory sketches for those larger sculpted works, but also his practice and exploration from his studio, the figures spare and sinuous, bodies sketched in watercolour barely contained by pencil lines drawn on the page. Their poses were at once graceless and affronting, their legs spread, sex revealed, crouching, rolling to one side readying the body to stand upright. They might be acrobats or dancers, their bodies contorted, defying the meek gestures of nymphs and goddesses of the idealised classical style. There Chloe saw female forms elusive and vital; women more nimble and unrestrained than any male counterpart. She walked to stand behind André, reaching out her hand, placing it firmly on his shoulder. His muscles tensed and she saw his face bristling. She clenched her fingers tighter. He could not ignore her now. She would not have him peer through those lazy eyes glazed with indifference. She would have him listen to her words.

            “Look around you,” she whispered, her voice sharp in his ear. “No, look more closely.” She was insistent. His expression flickered, alert to slight alarm. There she had him, but it was no longer desire. Her pleasure she would have later for one final night. She would wrestle him beneath her, clamp his body between her thighs, she as solid as the marble Francesca just to show him something of her will. She no longer cared how he might retell their story, how he tired of her needy inclinations. He would have no chance for that vain sneer, she would thrust her hands down over his face, smother his eyes, his mouth – the satisfaction of that instant would be hers alone. Her fingers dug deeper into his shoulder; she did not withdraw her hand as she might have done before if she sensed he would pull away. He would cast her as the crazed character and at this Chloe smiled; there would be no wan fading away in her story.

But at that moment, standing alone in the gallery after André had wandered into the next room, Chloe turned back to the drawings. She no longer wished for someone to appear beside her, his reflection looming in the glass of the display case. Passion, she would find again. Until then she would not be ill-fated as those legendary characters condemned to be buffeted and blown by the tumultuous winds of Hell. She wanted nothing to disrupt her pleasure in those images, a single figure on each page, bodies of an agile and sinuous beauty; bodies that rose up from their poses, danced, whirled and leapt with a spirit and energy entirely their own. 

 

Bio:

Mabel Leigh is an art historian and teacher. She has lived in Paris and London, and is now based in the south of England. She writes short stories in her spare time. 

Painting Lessons by Ed Ahern, coffee.

 

The evening art class at the high school was crowded with middle agers. The much younger instructor kept brushing the palm of his hand against what was left of his hair, as if depilating his nervousness. Our porta-easels were raggedly arranged around the meeting room, with those supposing they had talent setting up in the front.

I had little talent, but needed to get out of an empty house that would pirouette me back into bad habits. I set up and hoped that Mindy Warwick would make her usual slightly late arrival. She did.

She wore a wedding band but no engagement ring. Her clothes were clean and unwrinkled, but well used, and the car she drove off in after the sessions made expensive repair noises. We were able to laugh with each other about our artistic efforts, and I liked her without knowing much of anything about her.

We helloed during the clatter of set ups, listened to vague instructions, and started daubing. The top of her head barely cleared the top of the easel, but her small hands made bold strokes.

“Slow down,” I said, “or you’ll be done before he has a chance to pick on your technique.”

Mindy didn’t laugh, her expression one of pained anger. But not at me. Whatever was upsetting her she’d walked in with. I’m borderline obtuse to social cues, but recognized she was churning within herself.  

During the break I had to ask. “You seem upset. Anything I can help with? Do you want to just talk?”

“Joey, I wish you could help me. God, do I. But there’s nothing you can do. Just leave me be.”

“Sure, but if you change your mind, just complain into my good ear. I’m an okay listener.”

Her half-smile was almost a wince. She turned back to her easel and solitary suffering. Over her shoulder I glanced at her painting. It was a grouping of four people, but the figures were rendered like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” distorted and in pain. I said nothing.

When the session was over, we repacked our gear and headed out to our cars. I tossed a couple of inane comments at Mindy, but she was too deeply buried within herself to pay attention.

She was parked facing my car and a few spaces down. As I started up, I heard her clunker making rasping noises. I waited, but her car didn’t move and she didn’t get out. After a few minutes I walked over.

Mindy was sitting behind the wheel crying. I motioned for her to lower the window and she did. “Won’t start?”

“No, God damn it.” She resumed crying.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

“There’s no one.”

“Your husband maybe, or one of your sons? A car service?”

Her laugh was bitter. “As I said, there’s no one available.”

I surprised myself. “Look, it’s getting cold and you can’t stay out here. I can take you home if you want, and you can make arrangements for the car tomorrow.”

“It’s a long half an hour from here.”

‘That’s okay, I’ve got no life.”

Her smile was crooked but visible. “All right, but I can’t pay you for your gas.”

“There’s no need.”

We bundled her art stuff into the back of my SUV and left. I didn’t interrupt Mindy’s silence for the first few miles, then “I meant what I said about being ready to listen.”

She started crying again, then burst out in an angry tone. “What’s the use! Do you want to hear about my older son in prison, or my younger son being evicted and sued because his pit bull bit the landlady? Or my almost ex-husband who’s off on a bender with our overcharged credit cards? Or my crappy car and almost as crappy job? I don’t think so.”

There were a few seconds of silence because I had no idea what to say. Then, “I go to the painting class to get away from myself. I’m only a few months away from my last serious mistake. My ex-wife dumped me two years ago. I only recently got another job. Yeah, I think I’m able to listen to you.”

And I did. For the rest of the ride, Mindy, in pained words, told me how bad it was, crying one more time. I dropped her at a little slab house that she said had been built for the military. The house looked to need as many repairs as her car.

Once I got her and her gear to the front door I said,” Give me the key to your car.”

“No, why?”

“Your car noise sounded like an alternator. I’ll get it fixed. You can pay me back when you have a chance.”

Her look was dubious. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. Call in sick for a couple days while it’s getting repaired.” I realized why she hesitated. “No strings. I’ve been there. I’m just paying it forward.”

“I can’t…” But she had no options. “How much do you think it would cost?”

“A few hundred dollars.” That was a lie. I figured it would be nudging toward a thousand.

“I’d have to repay you monthly.”

“No problem, no interest.” I smiled at her. “You could also lie and tell me how good my painting was.”

Her return smile was feeble. We exchanged phone numbers and she took the car key off the ring and handed it to me before gathering up her artistic tackle and going inside.

I interrogated myself on the ride back. Helping her hadn’t been entirely altruistic. Mindy was attractive in a pleasantly weathered way, and I’d already wondered about getting more involved. She had a rotting garbage bag of a life, but so, at one point, had I. I tried to tell myself to go to church and date someone in the choir, or find a wealthy widow, but kept circling back to a petite woman who probably had more personality problems than personal ones.

The car repair ran to seven hundred dollars. I called Mindy and asked if she’d mind dropping me back home after I brought her car. Her words were a thankful yes, but her tone was hesitant.

I gave Mindy a doctored bill from the garage for $300. The younger of her two sons was at the house. Jake of pit bull ownership said little more than hello, and immediately volunteered to take me home. Mindy didn’t object, so Jake and I rode back in close to hermetic silence. As I was getting out he said curtly, “My mom is going through a lot. She doesn’t need any complications from you.”

I nodded. “Don’t plan on giving her any.” That was about a quarter lie, because I didn’t really know how I felt. “Thaks for the ride, Jake,” I said, trying to flate a little warmth into the comment.

The start of the next painting class was awkward, Mindy a little standoffish, maybe because she felt vulnerable about her obligation to me. But by the time we packed up we’d gotten back into our usual groove of gently ribbing each other.  Just before we left, she held onto my arm. “Having someone to lean on and listen to me really, really helped. You can’t know how much.”

I was vaguely embarrassed. “It was nothing.” Which wasn’t quite true. I’d called in a favor at the chop shop that fixed her car. They usually tore apart rather than repaired, but owed me.

As the class was winding up, I turned to her. “Coffee? A drink?”

She had a firm, sad expression. “I can’t, but thanks for asking. It makes me feel interesting.”

“Sure. Is the car behaving itself?”

That eked out a smile. “It’s amazing. It’s like there are a bunch of new parts. Thanks again.”

“Any time. See you next week.”

The next week she was a no show at the painting class, and I called her during the break. “Mindy, it’s Joey. I noticed you were truant. Is everything okay?”

Her voice was raspy and nasal. “Oh yes, everything…” and then she started crying. “Just ignore me Joey. Things aren’t good here.”

My antennae quivered. “Anybody bothering you?”

“No, no, oh hell, it’s my husband. I got a call from some guy Ralph owes money to. He threatened Ralph, then said we’d have to sell things to make good. Including my car.”

“Hah. Did this guy give you a  name?”

“Sal. Ralph is in the wind, I don’t know where he is.” More crying.

I paused. There was a lot I shouldn’t say. “Look, maybe it’ll work out. Give it a day or two. Call me please if you need to talk.”

We spent another few minutes talking about nothing and after we hung up I put in another call. Connected guys use aliases, but are stupid enough to use the same one.

“Frankie? It’s Joey… Nah, I’m completely out of things for now… You know how parole works. I can’t fuck around yet. Listen, a favor. Does your mope Philly, aka Sal,  still collect for you?... Ah. Could you tell him to pick on a guy named Ralph Warwick rather than his wife?... you got a dirty mind. Listen, I’ll guarantee the vig while Philly finds this asshole. Then he can do whatever he wants with him. But leave her alone…. Thanks Frankie. Yeah, fuck you too. Best to the family.”

Mindy was at class the next week, but not happy. After we were done smearing paints, I touched her shoulder. “Things better now?”

“God, no. Ralph was in an Indian casino four days ago and got beaten very badly. Three of the fingers on his right hand are broken, and that’s what he does everything with.”

I pushed myself into a sympathetic expression. “Wow, that’s terrible. Is he paying the loan shark back?”

“So he says. He tells me he’s quit gambling and using the money to pay back what he owes, a little at a time.”

“You don’t seem sure.”

“I’ve heard that story before. And we’re still broke.”

The class finished up in May, and Mindy and I agreed to sign up for the fall session. A few days later I changed my mind. Being a platonic support group of one for Mindy was antithetic to what I usually was. And she didn’t deserve to be manipulated.

That fall, Mindy called. “Joey, you weren’t at class and the instructor with the neurotic hair said you hadn’t signed up.”

“Hi Mindy. Yeah, I decided I should accept my lack of talent. But I’m glad you’re still at it.”

“Coward.” Her tone was jovial.

“You sound good. I’m glad.”

“Ralph moved out and I’ve filed for divorce. I’ve still got close to nothing, but it’s my nothing now.”

I smiled. She was going to be maybe okay. “That’s great.” I wanted to say more, but residual affection for her prevented me.

“I did some checking on you, Joey. You’re not a nice boy, are you?”

I laughed. “Haven’t been accused of that since maybe fourth grade.”

“There’s two things I want to tell you. You need to sign up for the course. My painting isn’t the same without your ribbing. And I’m ready for that cup of coffee.”

 

Bio:

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 600 stories and poems published, and twelve books. He's on the review board at Scribes Micro, and is the idle figurehead at Scribes Micro

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