Between Now and Heartbreak - Dylan Allen Page 0,41

little higher than the right, breaking the perfect symmetry that makes him look aloof at times.

I start to draw.

It’s not surprise that I started my drawing with his mouth. I can’t stop thinking about kissing him. I move my pencil up the paper and draw his eyes instead.

"Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything,” he says and plays a bright, little melody as he talks.

“How profound,” I say, glancing up to make sure I’ve got the spacing of his eyes right.

He’s got a faraway look, his fingers move over the keys effortlessly.

“Plato said it.”

“Well, tell me what Carter Bosh has to say. I’m much more interested in him than Plato,”

He bites his lip and then laughs as he starts to use both of his hands now. I don’t recognize the song he’s playing, but right now it’s just background music for our conversation.

“The piano… is a miracle,” he sighs and it’s so obvious that he’s feeling that love right now.

And I wonder what it would be like to be loved like that. By him. God, please give me the chance to find out one day.

“A miracle?” I ask, wanting him to continue talking.

He nods. His fingers dance lightly over the keys, playing scales, slowly, deftly.

“Yes, it’s such a simple instrument - metal, wood and vibrating air, and yet it can express the subtlest of truths in a way that words never could. And yes, classical has been my medium, but it can play anything, jazz, pop, hip hop.” He plays a stanza of something.

“Why do you love that one you tattooed on your arm?”

His eyes slide to me.

“Let me play it for you. And then you’ll see.” His voice is deep, sensual and a tremor of excited anticipation runs through me.

Without taking his eyes off me, he starts and I watch in wonder as he makes himself a master of invisible elements and shapes the air into beautiful sound. The notes wash over me, so peacefully at first. My eyes close on their own accord. But instead of plunging me into the dark, his music illuminates corners of my mind that I’ve never been able to reach before. Beyond the shadows and dragons.

Then the music changes, layers and turmoil fractures the peace, but it’s not dark. It’s as bright and shining as the sun. In this light, my dragon is golden.

I need to draw this feeling.

I open my eyes to find him watching me, but there’s that faraway look in his eyes, but his body is fully engaged with the piano and they are acting as one.

I pick up my pad and start to sketch him. We don’t speak again.

By the time I look up from my work, the sun is coming up. Carter stopped playing some time ago and has fallen asleep on my couch. I get myself ready for work and leave him sleeping.

I’m not sure what I’m doing. But I’m loving every second of it.

13

GARDEN OF DREAMS

BETH

When I was little, I was convinced that my birthday was bad luck. Even when I was too young to fathom the traps and pitfalls I’ve discovered as an adult, I knew for sure that I was cursed. Being born on that day, with an indelible and omnipresent mark that multitasked as a declaration of my wrongness and a reminder of my otherness. It sure felt like bad luck.

So, birthdays as far as I was concerned, could fuck off and die. Oh, and it didn’t help that thanks to being the shadow of my much older brothers, I also cursed like a sailor by the time I was five.

Needless to say, my birthdays weren’t days filled with happy feelings. But the fact that it’s also the day my brother died makes me wish I’d never been born.

I left work early to meet Erin at the cemetery this afternoon. We cleared away dead flowers and hugged and then she left. She told me she’s dating again. I’m happy for her. If she and James weren’t happy, I hope this time she will be.

I stay after she leaves and lay down on the patch of grass next to the small stone that marks his resting place.

The huge limestone headstone won’t be ready for a few more months. It’s a gaudy, hideous monument that he would hate. But it’s the same one that adorns every Wolfe man buried here. The women have tiny statues and are buried in the shadow of their