A Captive

A special day transpired in late March 2010, a day of double joy. Rhea and I celebrated our wedding anniversary, and Coral flew into Melbourne. My wife and I exchanged gifts early.

Rhea liked the film Girl with a Pearl Earring. I admired the artist Vermeer, so I gave her pearl earrings. She reclined in bed surrounded by puffy pillows when I reached into my drawer and passed her a red velvet jewellery box accompanied by a peck on her lips.

Rhea gasped, and heart-to-heart hugged me when she flipped open the box. She bounced out of bed in her nightie and hung them straight away. She enjoyed looking in the full-length mirror, turning her head to see the pearl hoops.

Her fingers went to her lips, "Oh, my hair," she gasped.

She hurriedly grabbed a brush and combed it.

After finishing, Rhea detoured to the wardrobe, eased out a wrapped package, and handed it to me on the bed. The shape and weight suggested a book.

Excitedly, I carefully held the silver-wrapped rectangle with a ribbon bow atop. My mother taught me as a child to appreciate opening a gift.

She said, 'linger over the hidden and have faith in the giver.'

Her secondary motive was to avoid ripping into it so that attractive, expensive wrapping paper could be recycled.

As a child nail-biter, I picked slowly along the edge of the clear tape to release my presents and hand my mum the reusable gift wrap.

I started to prise my wife's present open by scraping up the tape at a corner fold.

"Oh, Luke!" nudged Rhea, "Pull the dangling tab!"

She guided my fingers to it as her new earrings joggled. I pulled it like a ripcord, and the paper split and spread instantly, revealing a book. The bursting, paper-shredding opening unleashed a memorable impression that made me feel special.

My partner was a wonder; she no doubt searched online for a rare book for me. The theme was ornamental cast iron on Federation houses. I fingered the glossy volume rapted as my eyes alternated between the cover and Rhea's.

I'm sure we mirrored happiness in our lifted cheeks.

After giving her a mammoth hug, she invited me to share some illustrations.

In the afternoon, we rushed to leave the house as we cut it fine to be at an event. We dressed formally as Coral was the main speaker at an exhibition opening. Before attending, Rhea and I showered together.

Our hands explored each other's bodies. We allowed water trickles to trace the curves and crevices of our bodies. We soaped skin with fertile tenderness. Reaching from her toes, she pushed and kissed me. I cradled the sides of her face and returned the favour. My hands glided down her flanks and across her womb.

I lingered at the line of her caesarean scar—a memento from Phoebe. She ran her fingers through my greying chest hair. I massaged her buttocks; they were no longer firm. Rhea grabbed my butt, and it slumped softer too.

My hands curved into the sides of her breasts. Gravity may have won, but I liked their suppleness and her firm nipples. Her fingers ambled down my back, catching hairy patches.

We were what we amounted to, yet we were comfortable.

We kissed after I nibbled and whispered in her ear, "I love you, sweetie."

Rhea lifted her eyes to mine and cosily replied, "I love you too, darling."

Her arms wrapped around me, steady, and I returned her generosity. The water washed over us, hugging underneath the rain of the shower head. We murmured expressions of the heart as we encompassed a universe of feelings and emotions for each other in that single word: love.

A word built and shared by Rhea and me as a couple — cemented by our collective, enduring, steadfast memories.

We two held as one. Our eyes locked into each other's intense gaze.

Rhea's bountiful love for me flowed like a waterfall.

We hustled and hassled each other nicely and scurried to an exhibition. We entered the Great Hall at the NGV and instantly appreciated the famous stained glass ceiling. The setting oozed quality with comfortable seating and stylish posters of a brooding Schiele. We occupied third-row seats courtesy of my best friend.

Coral was opening the Schiele retrospective and travelled from Sydney to give the address as an authority on the artist. Her introduction included references to her recently published art journal pieces.

She belonged on a podium, as stunning as ever. Coral wore a formal yellow dress suit – one of her favourite colours. I liked the button closed on her jacket that stressed her shape.

I recalled her choice of Schiele for an assignment at college. And, here she spoke, a recognised expert on his complex, intense works. My bestie weaved magic with words – she painted a meticulous, insightful portrait of a man and his art through her wordsmithing. Coral glowed under the presentation lighting. She interwove a compassionate story of the artist's lacerated soul and unbridled output. The audience gave a rousing round of claps when she finished her address.

After Coral spoke, Rhea and I proceeded to view the exhibition masterpieces. The gallery rooms hummed with conversations, including our own.

Rhea found his erotic art confronting.

"In your face sexuality," she called it as she saw it.

She didn't pause in front of these works. Instead, she spoke with empathy about Schiele's tragic life.

"It was like everything went wrong at once," she shared, looking at me rather than Schiele's drawings.

Her hand moved over her heart as she continued, "So sad, dying of the Spanish Flu in his twenties, days before World War One ended. And what could be sadder than your six-month pregnant wife dying three days before you?"

I guided Rhea to the neighbouring gallery room featuring Schiele's landscapes. We both could appreciate how he expressed his emotions through these pieces.

Rhea especially liked these artworks, "emotions interwoven to place," she said.

Coral greeted us in this gallery. It had been two years since we last connected in person. My bestie stayed attractive, whatever her age. Her hair retained its colour and flounced with her expressive movement as she talked about art. Yes, she had the makings of crow's feet in the corners of her eyes, but her freckles perennially fascinated me.

It was the venue's lighting or her composure, but her freckles seemed moored to her nose today. I sensed she desired to speak to me privately.

In the meantime, Rhea, Coral, and I enjoyed our love of art. We talked of Schiele's landscapes and how they triggered a memory of the spaces around us when we were young.

The spring and the mulberry tree. 

Rhea smiled, happy; she liked how Coral and I unpacked memories.

When Rhea excused herself to the restroom, my bestie walked me aside into an alcove. Her hand ushered me under my elbow. I caught a reflection of my amber tie and thought Coral was questioning my dress sense.

Was she?

"I finally met your Jenny in Sydney last month," she shared discretely.

My eyebrows raised as if my whole face turned into a question mark, then changed to an exclamation mark.

I drifted to the edge of consciousness until I became aware I steepled my fingers. I loosened them, and my fingers flexed at my sides, uncoordinated.

I recalled that I never had the opportunity to introduce Jenny to my bestie. Coral revelled in her art fellowship at Princeton through my days beside Jenny. I recollected my bestie knew Jenny's name, her raven hair and amber eyes.

I told her years ago, yet Coral remembered.

My best friend promised me that if they ever met, she would give a fair appraisal if Jenny was my one.

What to make of Coral finally meeting Jenny? I glued attentively to my best friend's divulged information.

Yet I wondered: Why tell me?

My fingers twisted the tail of my tie.

It was years later before I realised why— I believe Coral felt I needed to hear the underlying message of her disclosure.

My bestie accepted her past; if not, she managed it.

The previous year, she revealed that she received therapy to heal Granville in her mind. I eventually understood that Coral supplied me with the knowledge to orientate myself forward and not stay a captive of my past.

I didn't grasp at the exhibition as Coral readied me: What should I do or say if I ever met Jenny again?

"We were introduced at a theatre production," Coral confided.

She leaned in, and my hands delved deep into my pockets.

"As we became acquainted, I focussed on her striking eyes. I could see your attraction to her."

"What theatre production?" I asked.

I entreated information to place myself in Jenny's picture.

I squeezed my hands in my pockets.

"The musical was My Life with Albertine. Proust, I've seen the volumes on your bookshelf. Yet, I don't believe passion creates misunderstanding! Besides, it's a tad over length!" she tittered.

A finger rose to curl her locks before she stopped.

"Anyway, I consulted for the production. Jenny was the director. She sought art prints as props to support the cultural milieu of the show."

I pictured them working, their busy bodies framed by a stage.

"She is purposeful," Coral stated.

I remained quiet through all this new Jenny news.

I suspected Coral hinted that my reserved nature would never have secured Jenny as my one. I released my hands from my pockets and let them hang loosely.

"She's a doer and a goer," added my bestie.

I visualised Jenny tuning in to Coral. I hoped Jenny appreciated Coral's green eyes as I did.

My bestie continued, "She does everything purposefully, from one job to the next. I saw her satisfaction at a job well done. I noted she didn't go back; she focused forward-looking in her bustle of intent."

I tried to envision Jenny's stage and backstage beelines. I couldn't — as I curled my knuckles and pushed them into my chin.

Coral watched my brow crease.

She continued rapidly, "I received complimentary backstage access on opening night. Albertine unfolded as a quality show. Your Jenny is mobile and attuned. She roved to ensure the coherence of the whole production!"

My bestie, I believe, sensed I framed Jenny from the past while trying to imagine her in the present.

On tenterhooks, I leaned in, gathering my bestie's pistachio perfume as I waited for Coral's summation of Jenny and me.