Romanticist.”
“And?”
“And the whole suite just tore into my imagination. All of the animals did, but one of the movements is actually called 'Fossiles' and is meant to represent a dance of dinosaur bones. Ogden Nash, an American poet, wrote words to match the music back in the forties and they recorded it with an orchestra playing behind. It really got to me as a kid; apparently I used to recite it on a daily basis. It just- set fire to my imagination, I guess. The rattling bones, the ghosts - it was entirely captivating to an eight-year-old me. Hence,” Ivy gestured through the door to the shelf of skulls, “the archaeology.” She recovered her warm coffee cup and leant back against the elbow of the bench, glad she once again had something to hold onto.
“Well?” Orrin prompted.
“Well what?”
“The poem. Let's hear it then.” Orrin put down his coffee cup and leaned forward in anticipation, smiling at her. The simplicity of the movement brought him a touch closer, and a rush of warmth and nervousness gripped her chest. She couldn’t help but return his smile. Ivy’s nose wrinkled as she twisted the smile on her lips nervously, trying to ignore the enticing scents of oak moss and fir from his aftershave.
“You realise I'm indulging you here?” Ivy looked up at him, grinning.
“Absolutely.”
Ivy shook her head. “Okay, the verse goes like this:
At midnight in the museum hall, the fossils gathered for a ball,
There were no drums or saxophones, but just the clatter of their bones,
A rolling, rattling, carefree circus of mammoth polkas and mazurkas,
Sang ghostly prehistoric choruses.
Amid the mastodonic wassail, I caught the eye of one small fossil.
'Cheer up, sad world,' he said and winked, 'It's kind of fun to be extinct.’”
Ivy shrugged, her eyes sparkling. “So there you have it Orrin- the sad beginnings of my obsession with bones and very old food implements.”
Orrin pursed his lips, biting back a laugh.
“You promised!”
He held up his hand in surrender. “Scout’s honour.”
“Thank you.” Ivy jutted her chin forward in mock indignation. “I did say it was for children.”
“You did. No, it was, um, how do I put this-? Unique .” Without either of them realizing it, he’d moved closer. “Just like…” Orrin’s fingers grazed hers where they were pressed around the edge of the bench and he stopped still, all trace of humour gone. His brow furrowed for an infinitesimal moment as he studied her face. His eyes flicked down to her mouth then back up.
Ivy suddenly felt too warm. Her breath was too loud. Her fringe shifted into her eyes and she had a fleeting desire to stay hidden behind it. Orrin’s fingers brushed hers again as he lifted his hand hesitantly toward her face. His pupils were blown wide and his shoulders rose and fell hypnotically. So close. Ivy felt his breath stutter and his fingers pause halfway there, a silent question in his eyes. Too close.
Ivy reached up slowly, curling her own hair back behind her ear and met his eyes more boldly than she felt. It would be so easy. His lips were only a moment from hers and the loneliness and longing tempted her forward. She could feel it there, aching, just below the surface. But another, more familiar ache followed quickly behind it. Pain. Loss. Ivy closed her eyes, turning slightly away.
Orrin’s voice broke the silence, a little rough and deeper than usual. “You know, I think I'm finally starting to get inside your head Ivy Carter.” His humour hit a little too close to home.
Ivy straightened, offering a smile tinged with regret. She slipped sideways along the bench, out of reach. “In that case, I think it's probably time for you to go, Orrin James. My head is the last place anyone should be.”
As Ivy sank into a hot bath later that night, her mind buzzed with the events of the day. She pictured Tom in his little apartment downstairs, making himself a cup of tea and going to bed. The
“And?”
“And the whole suite just tore into my imagination. All of the animals did, but one of the movements is actually called 'Fossiles' and is meant to represent a dance of dinosaur bones. Ogden Nash, an American poet, wrote words to match the music back in the forties and they recorded it with an orchestra playing behind. It really got to me as a kid; apparently I used to recite it on a daily basis. It just- set fire to my imagination, I guess. The rattling bones, the ghosts - it was entirely captivating to an eight-year-old me. Hence,” Ivy gestured through the door to the shelf of skulls, “the archaeology.” She recovered her warm coffee cup and leant back against the elbow of the bench, glad she once again had something to hold onto.
“Well?” Orrin prompted.
“Well what?”
“The poem. Let's hear it then.” Orrin put down his coffee cup and leaned forward in anticipation, smiling at her. The simplicity of the movement brought him a touch closer, and a rush of warmth and nervousness gripped her chest. She couldn’t help but return his smile. Ivy’s nose wrinkled as she twisted the smile on her lips nervously, trying to ignore the enticing scents of oak moss and fir from his aftershave.
“You realise I'm indulging you here?” Ivy looked up at him, grinning.
“Absolutely.”
Ivy shook her head. “Okay, the verse goes like this:
At midnight in the museum hall, the fossils gathered for a ball,
There were no drums or saxophones, but just the clatter of their bones,
A rolling, rattling, carefree circus of mammoth polkas and mazurkas,
Sang ghostly prehistoric choruses.
Amid the mastodonic wassail, I caught the eye of one small fossil.
'Cheer up, sad world,' he said and winked, 'It's kind of fun to be extinct.’”
Ivy shrugged, her eyes sparkling. “So there you have it Orrin- the sad beginnings of my obsession with bones and very old food implements.”
Orrin pursed his lips, biting back a laugh.
“You promised!”
He held up his hand in surrender. “Scout’s honour.”
“Thank you.” Ivy jutted her chin forward in mock indignation. “I did say it was for children.”
“You did. No, it was, um, how do I put this-? Unique .” Without either of them realizing it, he’d moved closer. “Just like…” Orrin’s fingers grazed hers where they were pressed around the edge of the bench and he stopped still, all trace of humour gone. His brow furrowed for an infinitesimal moment as he studied her face. His eyes flicked down to her mouth then back up.
Ivy suddenly felt too warm. Her breath was too loud. Her fringe shifted into her eyes and she had a fleeting desire to stay hidden behind it. Orrin’s fingers brushed hers again as he lifted his hand hesitantly toward her face. His pupils were blown wide and his shoulders rose and fell hypnotically. So close. Ivy felt his breath stutter and his fingers pause halfway there, a silent question in his eyes. Too close.
Ivy reached up slowly, curling her own hair back behind her ear and met his eyes more boldly than she felt. It would be so easy. His lips were only a moment from hers and the loneliness and longing tempted her forward. She could feel it there, aching, just below the surface. But another, more familiar ache followed quickly behind it. Pain. Loss. Ivy closed her eyes, turning slightly away.
Orrin’s voice broke the silence, a little rough and deeper than usual. “You know, I think I'm finally starting to get inside your head Ivy Carter.” His humour hit a little too close to home.
Ivy straightened, offering a smile tinged with regret. She slipped sideways along the bench, out of reach. “In that case, I think it's probably time for you to go, Orrin James. My head is the last place anyone should be.”
As Ivy sank into a hot bath later that night, her mind buzzed with the events of the day. She pictured Tom in his little apartment downstairs, making himself a cup of tea and going to bed. The
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