Page 57 of Your Echo
“So you’re just a big Edgar Allen Poe fan?” she asks me.
Her fingers inch lower, bringing more of the tattoo into sight.
“Yeah, he...” I trail off to gather my thoughts. Her touch is more than distracting. “He’s the first poet I really connected with, the first artist who really made me see the effect art could have, if that makes any sense.”
“I remember the first time I sawSwan Lake. It felt sort of the same.” She lifts her eyes from the raven and grins at me. “Maybe I should get a swan tattooed on my chest. We could match.”
“Interesting idea.”
She lets my shirt snap back into place and lays her palms flat on top of it.
“A raven looks a lot more fierce, though. I like the claws on yours.”
“It’s supposed to look fierce,” I admit. She cocks her head, and I elaborate. “There’s this line from a Simon and Garfunkel song about using poetry to protect yourself. When I first started reading Poe, I...I needed something to protect me. That’s what poetry became.”
I’ve never talked like this with anyone else. The only thing I’ve ever poured my feelings into is music. This is the first time I’ve let them flow out of me and into someone else.
Stéphanie wraps her arms around my neck and clings to me like she’ll take whatever I give her. I bury my face in her hair and breathe in her scent.
“Now I like your tattoo even more,” she murmurs. “If it’s protects you, then I’m grateful for it.”
She’s carving my heart wide open, and she doesn’t even know it. I tilt her head up to kiss her again, but she dodges me.
“I should go,” she admits. “I have a bunch of extra stuff to do at the studio today because of the showcase.”
“Speaking of which, where do I get tickets for that?”
She balks. “You want to come to a dance show?”
“I want to come toyourdance show.”
I let her go so she can pick up the rest of her stuff.
“It’s not reallymyshow,” she explains. “I just choreographed a few of the routines. I mean, I am going on stage with my six-year olds because they tend to just wander off into the wings if they don’t have anyone leading them, but that’s it. You’d see me on stage for three minutes and be stuck there for another three hours.”
Three fucking hours?
“I want to go,” I insist, before I can start to reconsider.
She’s giving me a look that tells me I’m doing a shit job at hiding how much the ‘three hours’ thing is freaking me out, but eventually she agrees to get me a ticket.
“On one condition,” she adds, as we walk to the edge of the park. “You get me tickets forLa Rentrée. If you get to see me dance, then I get to see you play.”
