Love Is A Moment

Midnight blue feather on the side of my hair. Black silk turtleneck to my chin, black leotards, silver belt.

Last, I buckle the ankle straps of my five inch, Joan Crawford style, platform silver leather shoes. I had found them in one of those moviestar thrift stores where costumes and fabulous things collect dust. They fit me perfectly.

I turn on the pink lamp by the window and it drops a glow the color of sunset and then I turn on my computer. I sit on the leather desk chair in front of my computer. A pale orange rose is inside the pink crystal bud vase next to my computer. I spray the air with lavender mist — I love the scent of lavender.

My heart is beating fast. Clink. I click the link and Ted is on the screen.

“Hello, so we meet again,” I say nervously, recalling the day before when we met in line at Walgreens. Without his mask he’s even more beautiful. His African American face, long full mouth, short part silver hair, and dark green eyes.

“You look…lovely.” He smiles. “I love your blue feather.” He’s seventy-one and a jazz musician. He sits next to a Grand piano. Bookcases filled with books, African sculptures and plants fill the large high-ceiling flat.

Behind his chair are framed photographs of famous jazz musicians — Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis — Ella Fitzgerald — and Yo Yo Ma.

He loves all music. Especially the cello. He is composing a jazz formation for the cello.

“I love Jacquiline Du Pre,” I say. His African American mother was a singer and his father was a film editor. We talk about film, writing, composiong. The creative life. We talk about the voice, the authentic voice. I tell him that I’m in flux, having trouble with my writing because I’m having trouble identifying myself. That I spend a lot of time in my subconscious these days.

When he laughs he throws back his head and his smile is like I’ve never seen, as if electrified. We talk about plants — he loves plants, and I love roses. “I wish to live somewhere remote, maybe by the ocean, and garden all day…write poetry.”

“Maybe you will. Anything is possible. First, we have to get through this pandemic. It’s serious Really serious. We could be dead next year.”

“Yes, why I submerge into my subconscious, Why I want to hear the music in my soul, know myself, write better books. “You are lonely,” he says suddenly. “I feel it. I feel you. I feel I could love you.”

“I feel desire for you,” I say, surprised by my directness.

“We’re in love this moment. Every love does not have to live in a house, forever. This moment is…”

“Lovely, full of desire,” I say.

I lean close to the screen. My lips are near his and I’m imagining what it would be like to kiss him.

He presses a button and Billie Holiday’s sensual voice overflows the room.

”Dance?”

I laugh.

“Just stand, and follow me.”

I stand. His long lean body slightly sways. My arm is up, as if around his long neck. His slim body sways, his arms out as if around my neck. He moves like a slow slinky. He is beautiful. He is authentic. Artistic. I feel him in my bones.

Billie Holiday finishes singing My Man. We sway, then simply, we stop. Another word or dance would invade the magic. I want to keep the moment forever, as I keep the transparent green rock I found by the sea, inside a glass box. Words or fake promises to see each other again would spoil the gorgeous sexy, felt moment. Love exists in a moment. Sometimes if taken out of the moment like rose in bloom, it dies.

Barbara Rose is a novelist. Her latest novel Love, Sometimes, published Feb 2020, along with the audible. Her book of Night Songs her book of poetry will be released in the spi spring. She is at work on a memoir about age, ageism and the and living through the pandemic. founder of the first virtual global AgeMarch in history. www.agemarch.org, www.barbararosebrooker.com