Still Life with Strings (31 page)

“That was her favourite
character,” I explain. “The one she drew the most. She called her Evangeline
Spectrum — don’t ask where she came up with the name. She thought it sounded
cool, like a futuristic angel.” I get up and go back to the wardrobe, pulling
out a big canvas, the only large-scale picture Sparrow had ever had the chance
to complete. I set it on the edge of the mattress for Shane to look at. It
shows Evangeline Spectrum, her blue wings spread out wide as she sits on the
moon, staring down at a world full of people.

“But this is you,” he
whispers, his eyes taking it all in.

I shake my head. “It’s
not me. I re-created Evangeline as a living statue. I’d been playing around
with the idea for a long time, and after a while I gathered everything I needed
for the costume. Somehow dressing up as one of her characters made me feel
closer to Sparrow. That’s how I cope with missing her. I put her in my life in
little ways, like tattooing birds on my arm or drawing a sparrow randomly on a
wall in a house full of artists. It feels better than crying into my pillow or
drinking myself half to death.”

Shane picks up the
canvas, his gaze eating it up. “You’re amazing.”

I let out a surprised
laugh. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Most people call me crazy.”

He sets the picture
down and looks at me dead-on. “Those people don’t know what they’re talking
about.”

A second later he’s
pulling me back into his arms and stroking my hair. We stay like that for a
while, and then I start talking again.

“Before Sparrow died, I
didn’t believe in anything. I was a complete and total nihilist, thinking the
world had no meaning. It just was. I had never lost anyone, so it was easy for
me to believe that when people died, that was it. They were gone. Dust on the
wind. There was no good place they were headed. Then my twin was dead, and I
found myself believing in everything if only it would mean that this wasn’t the
end. It was completely hypocritical, but I was desperate for the light at the
end of the tunnel to be true. I needed to hold onto the hope that I’d get to
see her again, that she’d get to live on somewhere wonderful after the horror
she endured. So now I let myself see the impossible in the mundane. I let
myself believe that things can happen that defy explanation. That I can fly with
my fake wings or that I can be standing listening to music on the street, and
suddenly I’m in a grand ballroom full of dancers. It’s the only way I know how
to survive without her, the only way I can convince myself we’ll meet again.”

Shane looks at me for a
long time. His hand on my hair pauses as he dips down to kiss me on the temple.
“We all have to believe in something to keep going, Bluebird,” he murmurs, and
then drags me down to a lying position. Somewhere along the way he pulled the
blanket over us, and the music I put on earlier isn’t playing anymore. It’s so
quiet. His thumb brushes the edge of my forehead, pushing my hair away from my
face.

“Us being here together
right now could be a sign, you know,” he says then.

“What do you mean?”

“You want proof of the
impossible, and you have it right in front of you. I saw you crying on the news
eleven years ago and wrote an album of songs for you like I was possessed by
music. Then years later I find myself staying in a room where a picture of you
is hanging. A couple of months after that, I’m walking down the street one
night, and the woman from my painting is standing in front of me in the exact
same pose from the painting. If there’s magic in the world, then we’ve both
experienced it for ourselves.”

For what seems like the
millionth time today, tears fill my eyes. Something stabs at my heart, and I
love him for every word he just spoke, even if none of it is true, even if it’s
all just coincidence. I look between his beautiful eyes, barely breathing, and
then finally I whisper, “Thank you.”

Nothing more needs to
be said. He made my entire world right just now, and I’m clutching onto his
words.

I’ll never let them go.

It was just an
ordinary night.

He didn’t think
anything extraordinary would happen.

Until it did.

Turning a corner
onto the bustling night time street, he saw her all in blue.

The woman from
his painting was a living, breathing thing…and she was so completely still.

I wake up early the next morning wrapped
around Shane. We’re both in my bed, fully clothed from the night before. My
face feels stingy from tears, but there’s a lightness in my chest, like getting
everything out lifted a weight I didn’t even know was there.

My body is half on top
of his and I lie still, admiring how handsome his face looks when he’s
sleeping, how his dark lashes create shadows over his cheekbones. He stirs a
little then and wakes up, blinking his eyes a few times. When he realises where
he is and who’s on top of him, I feel his body spring to life. His cock hardens
against my inner thigh.

Suddenly he flips us
over so that I’m flat on my back on the mattress and he’s hovering above me. He
does it so instinctively that it sets my nerve endings alight, like it’s so
natural for him to want to fuck me.

“How did you sleep,
Bluebird?” he asks huskily as he runs his knuckles down one side of my face.

“Good,” I answer,
quiet. “And you?”

“Good, too. I always
sleep well when you’re with me.” He moves his hips a little then, rubbing his
erection against the centre of my thighs. A quick breath escapes me. Then he
seems to think of something and pauses, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Crap, what time is
it?”

I glance to the clock
on my nightstand. “Eight-thirty. Why?”

“I have a radio
interview at lunch, and they want me to play live on the air. I need to go home
and practice, but I really don’t want to leave.”

There’s a sort of agony
in his eyes. I understand that he wants to get busy, judging from his current
state of arousal, but…and then I get it. He thinks that if he goes now he won’t
be able to see me again for another three days.

“You can come over
tonight,” I offer hesitantly. “Or I could come to yours?”

He narrows his gaze.
“But what about the rules?”

“Fuck the rules,” I
tell him brashly and he laughs, bending down and sucking on my lower lip. Damn,
I really wish he didn’t have to go now, either.

Pulling back, he stares
at me, his gaze roaming from one part of my face to the next, his eyes
glittering. His thumb brushes back and forth over my collarbone, and I keep on
staring back at him, unable to break the connection.

“I feel like I’m
falling,” he whispers, bringing his mouth to my lips for a soft, barely there
kiss.

All my words get stuck
in my throat as he draws away from me and slides off the bed. I watch as he
straightens out the clothes he slept in and pulls on his shoes. Why did he say
that? More to the point, what does he mean? I refuse to allow myself to draw
fanciful conclusions, but it seems fairly obvious what he was trying to tell
me. It feels like a lifetime has gone by when I find my voice at last.

“I’ll call you later.
Good luck with today,” I tell him softly.

“Thanks, Bluebird,” he
replies, looking at me for a long moment as he stands by the door. Then he
opens it and walks right out. When I hear him leave the house, I sit up in bed
and try to gather myself.

I’m not going to obsess
over that one little sentence. I can’t. It will drive me crazy. My gaze wanders
to the small calendar I’ve tacked to the side of my wardrobe. Scanning to
today’s date, I let out a little surprised gasp. There’s a big blue circle
around the day. It’s the anniversary of my sobriety, and I’m not sure how it
managed to creep up on me like this. Normally I’m so aware of each day as it
passes, but since I met Shane my head has been completely preoccupied.

It’s six years today
since I last had a drink. More to the point, it’s time for a new tattoo. I’m
actually glad for the distraction as I get out of bed and get dressed. I’m not
due to be at work until three o’clock, which leaves me with lots of time to add
another sparrow to my arm. I take care of a bit of housework and then set off
for the parlour.

Just before I leave I
catch a weather report that says it could snow later on, so I make sure to wrap
up well. I’m actually glad for the cold weather. Somebody told me years ago
that it’s better to get tattoos when it’s cold, because that way you don’t
sweat any of the ink out. It could be an urban legend, but I’ve always found
myself following that rule anyway.

When I reach the
parlour, a short walk into the city centre, it’s mostly empty. There’s just one
guy sitting getting a piece done on his leg. Unlike a lot of tattoo parlours,
this one has an open-plan setting, so unless you’re getting something done in a
place you don’t want anyone to see, they tattoo you right out in the open.

It’s daunting but
liberating at the same time.

The place is decorated
in a unique fashion, with kooky lopsided mirrors hanging on the walls alongside
surrealist paintings. I talk for a while with the receptionist, and then the
artist I always see, a tall guy called Stew with a septum piercing and wearing
a tight black muscle T, comes out.

The buzzing sound of
the needle and the smell of antiseptic fills me with a sense of anticipation
rather than fear. It’s always strangely relieving for me to add another bird to
my collection, a symbol that I’ve survived another year. The more years I
survive, the easier it becomes.

As I sit down and Stew
makes his preparations, somebody turns off the prog rock music that had been
playing and switches it over to a radio station. My new sparrow is going to go
just past my elbow on my upper arm. Only another couple of years before I reach
the top. I vaguely remember telling Shane I’d stop once I’d gotten to year ten,
but maybe I won’t. Perhaps I’ll just keep getting these sparrows under my skin
until they start calling me the Bird Lady instead of the Blue Lady.

Stew settles himself in
a comfortable position, and then the needle is burrowing into my arm. I suck in
a breath at the initial sting, but it’s a manageable sort of pain. My attention
goes to the radio and I hear the DJ speak, introducing his special guest of the
day, violinist Shane Arthur.

I call to the
receptionist, who’s typing into a laptop close by, and ask her if she could
turn the radio up. She nods, and then Shane’s gorgeously masculine voice is
filling the parlour. I close my eyes and allow it to wash over me, hearing his
words from this morning in my head again.

The DJ asks him a
couple of the usual interview questions, nothing too personal, and then invites
Shane to play something for the listeners.

“This song is for my
Bluebird,” Shane says before he starts to play.

It’s the song from
yesterday, the one he’d played for me as I was waking up in his bed. My heart
starts to fizz with giddiness. By the time he’s finished the song and the DJ is
thanking him for coming in, I glance down to see that Stew is almost done with
my sparrow. Looking around the parlour, I see that it’s still empty enough,
with only two teenage girls waiting to have their noses pierced.

“Do you have any
appointments after me?” I ask Stew, his face a blank picture of concentration
as he pauses and uses some tissue to wipe away the blood on my arm.

“No, not until late
afternoon,” he replies, looking up from his work with one eyebrow raised. “You
got something else in mind?”

My smile is barely
there, the edges of my lips ever so slightly curved up. “I might have.”

“Big or small?” he
asks.

“Somewhere in between.
I’m guessing it’ll take you about an hour. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “You’re the
one paying. I’ll do whatever you want.”

And then he goes back
to finishing my sparrow. I sit back, and my smile spreads wide as I picture my
first tattoo that has nothing to do with the birds on my arm.

***

As I stand at the
reception and pay for the two pieces I had Stew do for me today, I glance out
the window and see small flecks of white falling from the sky. The weather
report was right; it is snowing. I thank Stew one more time for yet another
great job and for all the work he did looking up what I needed online. Then I leave
the parlour.

I button my coat right
up to my chin and pull up my hood. There aren’t many people on the street,
because aside from excited children, nobody really likes to be outside when
it’s snowing. A fleck lands on my nose, and I look down to see it isn’t snow at
all, but a tiny clear diamond.

The ground is
glittering with them as they fall from the dark, heavy sheet of clouds in the
sky. When they hit the pavement, they make a little pinging sound, like broken
glass. My chest fills with wonder as I turn back and stare down at the street
behind me; every surface is glittering with diamonds, and I gasp at the beauty
of it.