What's the Story, Morning Glory - Drawing

This was first published here.

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Tony had no idea why he was there.

Really, it shouldn’t be like this.

What started out as a simple idea to consult a professional relationship counsellor on his impending marriage with her had somehow ended up with him in this field, with two other people he could only describe as nutters.

At the very least, they were mixed up. Emotionally unstable. More so than him. He just wanted a simple answer to his simple question.

“How do you know?”

How do you know when she’s the one? Should he settle down with her and learn to love her laugh? The way she wipes his mouth between courses? Could he truly be happy and sleep well every night for the rest of his life? With her laying stiffly beside him? He doesn’t even like redheads; normally.

The morning sun glared in his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he stared at the other blokes, who were busy sketching. Like that would help. He squirmed uncomfortably on his chair; it was digging into his back. Stupid camping chair!

He felt embarrassed to be there, and had no idea that the early morning bus trip from his new home would end up with him clutching a stick of charcoal and a notepad.

He drew a stick figure. Named it after her. Drew a big sun with arrows shooting out of it.

Nearby a conga line of cows were walking up the paddock; the soft dull bell, the sharp farmers whistle.

He slapped the back of his neck. Insects. A trickle of sweat rolled down his chest. The arms of his leather jacket creaked with each movement, it had always annoyed him. The other men said nothing, just bobbed their heads up and down as they took in each curve of the hill, each rise of the tree line.

He drew a square house, even though he could see none. Their happy home, together. The kind you drew as a kid, without lifting your pencil; with a big cross in the middle. A big, black cross.
The charcoal snapped.

Tonight's the Night!

It was all he had hoped for here and now.  As he watched her dance en pointe, his breathing slowed until he heard his own heartbeat; keeping time to Swan Lake, Act Three. The audience shuffled quietly, expectantly.

White noise filled his head, a gentle roar that grew in depth. The world held its breath, waiting for his cue.

This was it!

It had taken him his whole life to reach this moment, and he savoured every sweet note, every heart thump, every smile, rehearsed or not.

She was beautiful!

Tonight, after they danced, he would ask her. A thrill surged through him as the violins shivered in tempo.

This was it!

A final deep breath, the roaring in his ears now replaced with the familiar strains of chords and notes, his cue; his moment; his spotlight.

This was it!

Arms up – soft – and away; a spring step, lightly, lightly; feet extended, and a springbok leap.

The rest of the ballet passed in a blur; a delightful, happy blur, as he danced like the man possessed he had become.  Obsessed with movement and allowing his body to change and reach out, dance had become his whole life, ever since he saw her, at school , gasping with the beauty and delight at the retired ballerina’s graceful performance.

If only the U13 rugby kids could see me now, he mused, waiting for his final lift with her. That would silence the critics, his father in particular, and those bullies who waited for him behind corners, around trees, in the boys loos. If they could only see his body now; strong, sinewy, complete muscle definition. A man. A dancing man, yes, but this costume leaves nothing to the imagination. He was perfection. Perfection in lycra and tights.

He stiffened for the final lift, smile bright. Tonight is the night. His night. Music swelling, she leapt towards him, took flight; arms extended.

She was so beautiful!

He shivered in anticipation of her answer. Smiling, her perfect body taut with energy, sweat beaded her brow. 

Now was the time!  His career highlight, the audience, her, his spotlight, their triumph.

Reaching out, he carefully placed one hand on her left thigh.

Exquisite!

The other hand under her waist and ribs, careful not to bruise or hurt her.  She was safe in his capable arms, his strong hands, his gentle touch.

Already the audience began to applaud.

Magnificent!

His heart thumped in time to the final chorus. Soon they would walk on stage Pas Marche and bow together. He closed his eyes, filled with passion and joy.  He dipped her head towards the stage, as they had rehearsed for the past three months. He could do this movement with his eyes closed.

She never saw it coming, the blood leaving a small trickle, as he stood, in the spotlight, frozen.