though.”
“I won't even pretend to understand that sentiment, although-” Orrin feigned concern, “I'm sorry for your loss?”
Ivy laughed. “Thanks. And thank you for the flowers too.” She wandered toward the kitchen, Orrin trailing her. “Can I get you a drink then?”
“Thanks, sure, whatever you're having.” A minute passed in silence while Ivy busied herself with coffee to avoid staring at the half naked man drying his hair in her kitchen. It’s been way too long. She looked up to find Orrin studying her cello.
“So that was you playing before then? I thought it was the radio.”
“You heard?” Of course he heard. “I was just practising.”
“Will you play for me?”
“Hell no.”
Orrin's mouth opened in surprise and Ivy's skin suddenly felt like fire.
“What I mean is,” she stammered, “I don't usually play for anybody.”
“I see. And why’s that, then?” he asked, his accent and smile disarming her simultaneously.
Ivy faltered. Because nobody is ever here. “I don’t know.”
How it was that ten minutes later Ivy found herself playing the cello for her guest was beyond her. Orrin leant against the doorway with his coffee as Ivy took a deep breath, resting the tall wooden body of the instrument between her legs and adjusting the end pins slightly out of habit. She let her hand fall from the scroll to the strings and then pulled the slender bow across them in one long stroke, soothing and mellow. Ivy pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, shutting out the self consciousness that threatened to overwhelm her. Immediately she was alone again, lost in the music that ebbed and flowed through the room. The tone was warm and deep, almost like a human voice as it rose and fell. Ivy felt the harmonics course through her. She played a bittersweet melody of sorrow and love that drifted and slurred from one note to the next, her bow arm extending fully before sliding back in a continuous melancholic expression. Her fingers shimmered the strings with vibrato, anticipating their movement without conscious thought. It was Ivy's favourite piece. The melody consumed her as she imagined a swan, the inspiration of the composer, gliding effortlessly through water as each note took form.
“Deadly,” Orrin whispered. His eyes were soft and dark. Ivy cleared her throat, blushing. She’d forgotten he was there. “What was that?” he asked.
“'Le Cygne'- The Swan. It's part of a progression of movements composed in 1886 called The Carnival of the Animals.”
Orrin nodded. “It suits you. It’s beautiful, haunting almost. It's strange. I feel like I know it somehow. But I don't really listen to classical music so I don't see why I would. My best friend plays piano like that. I should probably appreciate his talent more.”
“Probably,” Ivy smiled. “You might have heard that piece before somewhere; it's the most famous movement of the suite. There are fourteen altogether and each one is based on a different animal - the donkey, elephant, tortoise, lions, even an aquarium.” She stood and placed the cello back on its end pin in the stand, leaning against the elbow of the bench to face him again. “I think it may even be responsible for my ultimate descent into the archaeological pit, so to speak. This piece sort of- spoke to me , I suppose.” Ivy stopped abruptly and looked away.
Orrin regarded her thoughtfully. “In what way?”
She dismissed him. “No. You'll laugh at me.”
“Scout's honour, I won’t.”
“Were you even a scout?”
“Not even close,” he laughed. “But seriously, why that song?”
Ivy sighed. In for a penny. Ivy picked up her cold coffee and put it in the microwave. “Well, I suppose I first heard it as a child. It's really written for children, you see. So much so that the composer, Camille Saint-Saens, wouldn't even let anyone play the suite until after he'd died- he didn't want to ruin his reputation as a serious French
“I won't even pretend to understand that sentiment, although-” Orrin feigned concern, “I'm sorry for your loss?”
Ivy laughed. “Thanks. And thank you for the flowers too.” She wandered toward the kitchen, Orrin trailing her. “Can I get you a drink then?”
“Thanks, sure, whatever you're having.” A minute passed in silence while Ivy busied herself with coffee to avoid staring at the half naked man drying his hair in her kitchen. It’s been way too long. She looked up to find Orrin studying her cello.
“So that was you playing before then? I thought it was the radio.”
“You heard?” Of course he heard. “I was just practising.”
“Will you play for me?”
“Hell no.”
Orrin's mouth opened in surprise and Ivy's skin suddenly felt like fire.
“What I mean is,” she stammered, “I don't usually play for anybody.”
“I see. And why’s that, then?” he asked, his accent and smile disarming her simultaneously.
Ivy faltered. Because nobody is ever here. “I don’t know.”
How it was that ten minutes later Ivy found herself playing the cello for her guest was beyond her. Orrin leant against the doorway with his coffee as Ivy took a deep breath, resting the tall wooden body of the instrument between her legs and adjusting the end pins slightly out of habit. She let her hand fall from the scroll to the strings and then pulled the slender bow across them in one long stroke, soothing and mellow. Ivy pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, shutting out the self consciousness that threatened to overwhelm her. Immediately she was alone again, lost in the music that ebbed and flowed through the room. The tone was warm and deep, almost like a human voice as it rose and fell. Ivy felt the harmonics course through her. She played a bittersweet melody of sorrow and love that drifted and slurred from one note to the next, her bow arm extending fully before sliding back in a continuous melancholic expression. Her fingers shimmered the strings with vibrato, anticipating their movement without conscious thought. It was Ivy's favourite piece. The melody consumed her as she imagined a swan, the inspiration of the composer, gliding effortlessly through water as each note took form.
“Deadly,” Orrin whispered. His eyes were soft and dark. Ivy cleared her throat, blushing. She’d forgotten he was there. “What was that?” he asked.
“'Le Cygne'- The Swan. It's part of a progression of movements composed in 1886 called The Carnival of the Animals.”
Orrin nodded. “It suits you. It’s beautiful, haunting almost. It's strange. I feel like I know it somehow. But I don't really listen to classical music so I don't see why I would. My best friend plays piano like that. I should probably appreciate his talent more.”
“Probably,” Ivy smiled. “You might have heard that piece before somewhere; it's the most famous movement of the suite. There are fourteen altogether and each one is based on a different animal - the donkey, elephant, tortoise, lions, even an aquarium.” She stood and placed the cello back on its end pin in the stand, leaning against the elbow of the bench to face him again. “I think it may even be responsible for my ultimate descent into the archaeological pit, so to speak. This piece sort of- spoke to me , I suppose.” Ivy stopped abruptly and looked away.
Orrin regarded her thoughtfully. “In what way?”
She dismissed him. “No. You'll laugh at me.”
“Scout's honour, I won’t.”
“Were you even a scout?”
“Not even close,” he laughed. “But seriously, why that song?”
Ivy sighed. In for a penny. Ivy picked up her cold coffee and put it in the microwave. “Well, I suppose I first heard it as a child. It's really written for children, you see. So much so that the composer, Camille Saint-Saens, wouldn't even let anyone play the suite until after he'd died- he didn't want to ruin his reputation as a serious French
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