"With him though, on the boat, oiling my legs with sun lotion, watching him peel off his bathing suit, I don't sing..."
fiction by donna gagnon
Let me tell you, little reporter man
Sober, I sing to strangers. It's my job. I always drink lots of water, work hard with Serge and the piano. Scales, trilling, pushing my range. I hop in a cab and go to the theatre. Let the sewers tell me I'm still trim. Don't even feel the pins they stick into me. I do it for the money, just like you craze around trying to meet your deadlines.
With him though, on the boat, oiling my legs with sun lotion, watching him peel off his bathing suit, I don't sing. Hum? Yeah, maybe. Little low notes in my chest, ones nobody else can really hear.
There's a difference, see. Between work and pleasure. You think I'm up on the bow singing arias? Hah. He's pouring champagne, clinking glasses, his eyes burning into mine as we drink and I'm off duty. Completely. Relaxing. Allowing him to create his own notes. We don't talk about what he does when I'm not around. I don't ask questions. He says things to me like:
"I'm not happy."
"It's not always millions that resolve what a man needs."
I give him the other stuff. The things he really needs. He tries to love me. So, no, I don't sing to Ari. I just hang around and enjoy the buzz. Let him touch me and think about smiles and wonder. While I'm in Greece, I leave opera to the Parisians. Just wish Paris would leave me alone for a while ...