Untimely Frost ~ WattPride 2023 ~

{3}

"You should never talk to yourself, Gianni. Some might say it's a matter of madness." Nikola lifted himself out of the shadows and came into view. He gestured to the moon with the hand that was not holding a glass of wine. "Her solitude is a sort of magic she prefers."

"Does she ever feel alone?" I asked and instantly felt silly for doing so.

"Yes," he nodded. "But she keeps returning night after night to the same sky.

"She could be in love," I whispered as I raised my hand to absentmindedly touch the leaves of an apple tree.

The breeze carried his scoff to me. A slight slur trimmed his words. "And her love is eternal, as love should be."

"Do you not believe in eternal love?" I asked him wistfully.

Nikola bowed his head. I saw that he had undone two of the top buttons of his shirt. His tie and jacket were tossed haphazardly on the ground – on the edges of the shadows, by the chaise lounge. "Love is not forever, Gianni. People grow apart. They burden each other with problems. People forget what they once cherished." There was a bitterness in his gaze, a sorrow in each syllable he'd spoken.

He brought his glass to his lips. After he had drunk, he ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip.

Under the madness of the solitary moon, he looked ethereal. It must have been my poet's heart that trembled at the sound of his voice. Some would call me insane, falling for a stranger I had never met until this day. But in the corners of my soul I felt as though he belonged there, as though he was meant to find his way to this moment, and I in return to it.

"Not all loves are forgotten," I responded watching him drink the remainder of his wine in three large gulps.

I walked to him. When I tipped the bottle to his empty glass he thanked me. "Some you never forget."

Nikola did not add anything to the conversation. Glass in hand he turned and walked towards the cluttered bar. Each step was a little more unsteady than the previous.

His fingers danced from bottle to bottle, each glass carcass bare with no more tales to tell. My father's wine had been a success. I'd seen more than a handful of people looking giddy and slightly unsteady on their feet. I, myself, felt my head swaying but could not tell if it were the beautiful red settling in my stomach or the sight of him.

Nikola took a sip of his wine before setting the glass among a mess of lipstick-stained crystal.

Soon enough autumn would be upon us, but in that moment, the scent of summer gardens lingered.

Moonlight shone down. It was a spotlight on a performance I had not rehearsed for.

"You promised me a private audience," he said without turning.

"I did." Not too long ago I thought he had forgotten, that he had left the party without a second thought to my acceptance of song.

"Well?" Slowly, he turned. His eyes glistened in the rays of pallid light.

I nodded and held out my hand to him. He took it and I helped him down the garden path.

The wine had long since kicked in for both of us. For him a bit more than it had for me. He held onto my hand, trying not to fall. I did not mention his intoxication. It did not matter. Some days we needed to have a few more glasses of wine for life was at times too cruel to stay sober.

The house was silent –a waiting shell longing for a soul created out of music and romance. We pushed through the long, pale curtains and went inside.

"Where do you want to sit?" I asked.

When he pointed to a chair by the piano, I navigated him there before taking my place on the bench.

Tendrils of moonlight reached through the floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting the living room with its faded rays.

I did not need to look at my songbook. I knew every note by heart. When my fingers touched the keys, the music came alive. A soft melody crept over every inch of the piano. A song of the promise of spring bloomed.

But just as I had begun, I heard him shout, "Stop!" and bang his hand against the side of the chair.

I abruptly stopped and turned to look at him.

"No, Gianni. Spring holds too many broken promises. It is a season that mocks us with its beauty only to die in the embers of a scorching summer. I do not want its lies. I want you to play something else for me."

I tilted my head confused. "What is it you desire?"

Nikola rose and walked to me.

I saw the outline of his body through his blasphemously thin shirt. I wanted to hide my eyes but he had already burned his way into my heart.

He slid next to me. His leg touched mine. "A requiem." For a haunting second, lips and words met as one against my ear.

Nikola smelled of Cabernet and a musky cologne that reminded me of an Oriental garden. Our eyes met and in that moment, he spoke volumes.

"I am not here on vacation," he whispered as he curved his fingers over the keys. "I am dying, Gianni." Nikola drew in a breath as mine was stolen away.

Tears stung. I felt dams of sorrow being created inside me. "W –what?"

Nikola took my hand. He brought it to his throat, to a small scar I'd not noticed. A faint mark, a scalpel's cut, the plastic surgeon's near-perfect work. "They got it out a moment too late."

"Nikola, I..." my voice cracked and I could not go on.

"You promised me a song," he began as he held my gaze, "words can be spilled later. Please?"

I nodded and swallowed down the information I had been handed.

Nikola pressed on the keys and the melody began. There was an ache in his features as he started to play. I noticed the longing of someone who has not played for so long. It was a pain I feared and one I had not experienced.

"Play, Gianni," he whispered almost inaudible as his fingers glided over the keys.

The melody was played in a hush, something akin a dream. I knew this song. I had heard it many times before and I had played it just as much. The composer was named Nikolas Finn – a pianist who wrote this piece for a thyroid cancer charity nearly three years ago. This piece of music was given to many famous pianists but the original composer never played it for an audience. The man's face was unknown and his history was mostly rumors. Many said he was some eccentric. No one was sure of his nationality though people spoke of him being German or French or Russian. Every pianist who took themselves seriously had learned this song, though the melody was heartbreaking and nearly impossible to play. It took me ages to learn the song. I only played it in private when I felt like my world was ending. Though both of my parents had asked me to recite it for them I always refused.

And here the song was, escaping the keys of my piano. I wanted to cry but I dared not weep.

When Nikola pulled his hands away, I carried on with the haunting tune. The richness of the notes pulled me under and this time I wanted to drown. I closed my eyes. I felt Nikola rise, a gentle creek of the bench betrayed him leaving, but I did not stop.

He walked around me. I felt the strength of his torso when he wrapped his arms around me. Nikola placed his fingers gently upon mine and we moved in time – in perfect synchronicity.

The warmth around me was becoming an inferno. Nikola's breath was desperate against the back of my neck. Not once did I open my eyes until we brought the song to an end.

For a moment, I was weak. I drew in a breath and tried to steady my heart. Nikola remained behind me and embraced me.

"It was you," I whispered piecing the puzzle together. Nikolas Finn. A clever nickname.

His head bowed upon mine and he nodded. "No one knows." Nikola's lips brushed along my hair. "No one but you."