A flush this time. “Yes, most days. It’s my job actually, so…”
I pause with my hands under the warm water. It’s not hard to believe that she’s a concert pianist. She has the wild hair and the dreamy atmosphere. And certainly the wealth that would have afforded her the opportunity to train at a world-renowned music school.
But she does not leave this suite. How does a concert pianist work from home?
She fills in my questioning silence. “I have a video channel. You know, online.”
First, there’s shock. I turn off the water. This tentative creature exposes herself online? Perhaps not her body, but music is far more intimate than that. And then there’s attraction, the kind that makes me want to watch every video she’s ever posted. Damn. “That’s incredible. Would it make you self-conscious if you showed me one of your videos?”
“No. I mean, yes, but not as much as what we did the other night. When I’m playing, that’s when I’m the most comfortable. The most… me.”
“After we’ve eaten,” I tell her.
She looks more comfortable just talking about music. “I like this. The cooking thing.”
“Here, add the vegetables.” I hold the pan for her while she puts in carrots, zucchini, onions. On top of that I add the marinade, where they will simmer together on the stovetop before serving. Not a traditional terra-cotta dish, but I had to improvise with her small kitchen, doing most of the cooking at my home. “I cook almost every night. It’s soothing.”
She peers over my arm at the stew. “Why is it orange?”
“Paprika, is what gives it the color. Turmeric. Cinnamon. Ginger.”
Her lips form an “O” and it’s too much of an invitation, whether she means it or not. I touch my forefinger to her bottom lip, giving her the chance to pull away. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t move. I know without tasting them that my skin will taste like spices. Without breaking eye contact I push my finger inside, rubbing my finger pad along her tongue.
“Coriander,” I murmur. “Cumin. Olive oil.”
She sucks in a breath, which forms a seal around my finger. The pulling sensation almost brings me to my knees, strong enough, shocking enough that I pull away.
“What do you think?” I ask softly.
Her swallow is an audible surrender. “It’s really good.”
That makes me laugh, but only a little. “Really good? I’ll have to try harder.”
“I would die,” she says, both solemn and playful in a way I’m learning is unique to her. “If it were any better, I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
“Poof,” I tell her, more playful than solemn. “You would expire on the spot.”
Her smile is tilted. “You would do that to me?”
“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”
There are trolls who live under bridges, according to my mother. She was full of superstitions and stories. They were fun when I was small. They turned darker later. These trolls, they make you answer questions in order to pass. That’s what I become during dinner, cajoling and curious.
I want to know everything about her, including when she started to play—she was three when she first read music, but she played from the moment her pianist mother sat her on her knee. She played from a young age, and then… and then there is tragedy. She does not tell me what it is, and I don’t ask. That’s beyond the scope of what we do here. Sorrow has no place here.
And under no circumstances will I make her cry—again.
“When did you begin your video channel?” The tagine turned out to be exceptional, despite her rather sad stovetop that heated completely uneven.
“A couple years ago.” She takes a bite and closes her eyes, giving this little moan I don’t think she knows she’s doing. It’s completely involuntary, that sound. Completely sexual. When her eyes open again she looks a little dazed. “I was going through a dark time. Feeling very alone here, so I posted online thinking, maybe I would find another musician going through the same thing. It went viral on social media, and then I had these followers asking for more.”
“You must have exceptional talent.”
She looks shy, but of course she does. “There are so many talented musicians out there.”
“Then what sets you apart?” I ask, half as a taunt, and half because I truly want to know. I see something incredible in her, something almost too sweet to be borne, but that does not mean the world will see it. In fact, the very opposite is usually true: the more rare and precious a gift, the more easily the world will dismiss it.
A helpless shrug is my only answer.
And then I cannot wait any longer. The tagine is only half gone, our plates almost empty but ready for second helpings, but I have to see her in her element.
The first thing when I get to the website she tells me is a picture of her. It’s part of the header graphic, a picture of her with her hair a wild halo, the shadows falling dramatically around her, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Climax, my sex-ready mind supplies. That’s how she will look during climax.
Of course, she isn’t having sex in the picture. As the photo fades to black I can see the lace of another high collar. And the barest hint of her hands in motion. She’s playing the piano. This has been sex for her. This is how a healthy young woman has managed to remain a virgin; not because she is sexless, but because she found a different sensual outlet for her body.
It’s hard to tear my gaze away from that shot in the header. Distantly I recognize that it must have been taken by a professional photographer, the focus is too clear, the lighting too perfect, for anything less. There’s a surprising streak of jealousy—that another man has been here, photographing her, admiring her, but I push that aside. All of this looks completely professional. The name across the top isn’t hers, not precisely. A stage name. Bea Sharp, like the musical note. I have to blink once, twice, against the number of followers she has. This is more than an internet sensation. This is a real-life celebrity sitting beside me, blushing profusely.
“It’s a little strange seeing someone look at it,” the celebrity says, her skin a pretty pink. “Normally I can just pretend like no one really sees me.”
Many thousands of people see her, the numbers prove. Millions actually. “This is incredible. You do this from here. Where is the piano?”
She gestures toward the other side of the suite. “The second bedroom. It was always the music room, but since the page has grown I have some lighting equipment and cameras.”
My finger hovers over one of the videos. “May I?”
“You don’t have to,” she says, which doesn’t answer the question.
“It’s rather embarrassing how much I want to. But only with your permission.”
She ducks her head in a picture of humble grace. My God, this woman. She is from a different time period, one with gowns and thrones. No wonder she lives at the top of the tower. So what would that make me? A court jester, I suppose. Someone to amuse her.
The video expands on the screen, focused on the piano. Only a little of her body is visible, a deep velvet dress that ends halfway down her forearms. Her nails are unpolished, neatly trimmed, square-tipped but delicate, strong and feminine. Her skin gleams in the bright light, highlighting the freckles across her skin, even there. I like to think that if I had seen this video first, I would have recognized her by her hands alone, both delicate and surprisingly strong.