Page 5 of The Painter and His Poet

My voice wobbles, and to the undiscerning ear, it’s an unnoticeable mistake. Yet, his gaze flickers, a strange irrepressible connection snapping to life between us as his dark lashes blink slowly, and my heart stutters in my chest.

I recover as best I can, wanting… No,needinghim to stay focussed on me despite the uncomfortable way he makes me feel, and as moments pass I’m no longer consumed by the song, but by this man who has caught my attention so thoroughly.

When he blows out a shuddering, shaky breath, there’s a sharp flood of pain slashing across his features, and inexplicably I feel his pain stabbing inmychest, as though I bare it as much as he does.

It’s not a physical pain he’s suffering from, not as far as I can tell from my brief glance over his lean body. It seems deeper than that, an internal pain. I see it etched into the grooves between his brows, the dark circles beneath his piercing blue eyes that only seem to make them stand out more, and the muscle in his jaw that jumps and leaps as though he’s trying desperately to hold on to his inner turmoil.

No, not turmoil.Grief.

He seems debilitated by it, and the utter devastation he appears to be wrapped in makes me wonder what his story is.

Am I singing a song that someone he once loved and lost, adored? Is he being bombarded with memories of a relationship that he’s no longer a part of? Is he heartbroken? Is he high? Is he dangerous? Is he just a lonely man out late at night passing the time? Does he have family, friends? Do they know how much he hurts?

All those questions swirl around my mind as I continue to sing. As I continue to sing tohim.

Because at this moment no one else exists.

It’s just us, two strangers. A seemingly troubled, beautiful man, and a lonely woman connected by this song. I allow my eyes to fully take him in. Dressed in jeans, hoodie and brown boots, he’s just like every other man I’ve passed by in the street. Except he isn’t. He’s so much more. It isn’t just his beautiful face, broad shoulders and tall frame, it’s… I can’t even pinpoint whatiteven is. All I know is that I am caught up in the heat of his stare, lost to the painful rapture on his face, confounded by the intense attention he’s paying me.

My brows pull together as I tip my head to the side studying him, and he presses his palms against his thighs, his fingers curling into the material of his jeans. That simple act, as though he needs to hold on to something to prevent him from rushing towards me, is both strangely attractive and incredibly overwhelming.

My heart pounds, his eyes flare. My pulse thumps, his lips part. I sway towards him, enraptured, he leans forward in his seat, trembling.

Each word, each note that passes through my lips seem suddenly provocative, filled with double-meaning. The pain in his face transforms into longing, and I feel that longing like a soft caress of a lover.

A feeling I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

It makes heat crawl down my spine and gather between my legs. I gasp on the next note, my cheeks heating as my clit throbs. He bites down on his bottom lip, eyes flaring with an intense heat, a heat I feel scorching every inch of my skin.

I almost don’t want to stop singing, knowing instinctively that this sudden, fraught, intense connection will end as soon as I do, but as the last word passes my lips, the elongated note hovering in the air between us, we continue to stare at one another long after the music fades.

Then as the bartender claps half-heartedly, the stranger’s eyes flutter shut, his body goes limp and he slides to the floor with a violent thud.

THREE

STERLING

“Hey, are you okay?”

Her voice.

The sweet, lyrical softness, the perfect rise and fall in pitch, the kindness imbued into every word tugs at my dulled senses, drawing me back out of the darkness and into stunning technicolour that continues to weave behind my closed eyelids, despite my body’s attempts at blotting it out. She’s American. I’m not sure why that surprises me, but it does.

“Can you hear me?” she continues, and I feel the soothing touch of her finger against my cheek like an electric current zipping through my bloodstream, my body reacting to her touch way before my mind can catch up. “Should I call an ambulance?”

Her warm breath cascades over my cheek as she leans in close, causing another eruption of goosebumps to scatter across my skin, igniting that electric current into a blazing inferno.

“No ambulance,” I manage to mumble, groaning as I lift my hand to my face to cover my eyes, acutely aware that I need a moment to gather myself, to regain a modicum of control.

It’s been a long time since the overstimulation from my synesthesia has caused me to pass out. As a kid it would happen often, but these days it has become less common. Over the yearsI’ve been able to pick up on the warning signs and take action. Warning signs that I chose to thoroughly ignore tonight.

“Are you sure? You don’t look too good,” she says, worry threading through her singsong voice.

“I’m fine,” I snap, my eyes still pressed shut as I force myself upright and draw up my knees. Who am I trying to kid? I’m far from fine. She huffs out a breath, about as convinced by my strained response as I am.

“Maybe you should get yourself checked out to be on the safe side?”

“It’s been a long day,” I hedge, hoping that’s enough to allay her concerns. The last thing I need is a trip to the emergency room.

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