where lies the strangling fruit

They stand alone now. He feels the slightest shift of air before she turns, breaking him out of his gaze, rupturing deep concentration and study of painted light bursting brightly through dimmer, parting clouds. Clicks of her heels echo in the small room (gentle steps sharp to his ears), and she is moving in his direction but towards the Sunlight. A polite prompt nudging him to move and he obliges, his footfall far quieter as he strides along the terrazzo floor. When they pass, he catches the scent of her perfume (quite keenly, individual notes of roses, jasmine, summer-ripe apricots and peaches), and their eyes meet in another fleeting moment.

(... deeper notes: mangoes, pistachios, sweet cream ...)

In their exchanged places, she is startled by his abrupt, swift intake of breath.

[These paintings were not the reason for their visit to this museum. He had been anticipating the art education series, today’s discussion on the technique and application of honey-based watercolors by the locally-lauded artist, Beau Byron. She had planned for the the same, on personal invitation, and waited in this exhibit - the impermanent permanent collection - recently updated with this pair of paintings. Composed by different artists, in different decades, with different mediums, representing the before and after of a singular, similar event.

When she had looked out to check the arriving audience in the atrium, he happened to walk straight into her line of sight. Their eyes fixated on the other, his dark and brown, twinkling gold as though under their own spotlight; hers deep and green, shining like the gems and display in the adjacent room. Her smile drew him further into her orbit, a coy and enticing thing, and with the bite of her lip and tilt of her head, she’d returned her attention to what was in front of her. The End. He followed her invitation, finding himself in front of the Sunlight.]

Now that warmth about him, in his eyes especially, discerned by the continued stolen glances out of the corners of hers, has cooled. He appears more dulled, pallid. The End of the Hurricane is harsh, foamy and billowing waves crashing against crags and rocks, tossing errant and innocuous things onto the shore. Violence of nature through rough, sharp, inelegant brushstrokes under a placidly smooth blue sky. One more final thrust of the ocean before returning to calm. He is mostly still, mostly unmoving save for his hands, tense but his fingers fold in upon themselves and release, again and again. His lips are parted slightly, and he is entranced, frozen in horror.

Her body angles towards his, and she steps closer - they were only a foot apart.

A small sound, the beginning of some word or phrase, escapes from her mouth, and it is like a lifeline. A rope for him to take hold of, to bring him out of the trance of tragedy. Another part of him finally moves, the blinking of his eyes.

“Would it be alright,” the first time he speaks to her, his voice is hoarse, tight and rushing to catch up with himself. He cannot yet look away from the art, but he wills is hands to relax at his sides as he takes a long, healing breath. The next time he speaks, it is in a whisper, “If we were to switch places once more?”

She gestures to the expanding space between them.

“Why don’t you stand next to me, instead?” Her question matches the hush of his, a delicate coaxing towards her, bringing him to the surface he so desperately needs. “We can look at this one together.”

He joins her. Close enough to feel her warmth, feel the safety of this beautiful women whom he would like to know (that he may have known in another lifetime).

“Are you alright?”

The tensed muscles in his body loosen, and he attempts to set himself to rights, to appear as outwardly charming as he finds her entirely enchanting.

“Yes. Thank you. I will be.”

The thrill of this moment, near enough to him that the back of her hand or her fingers could brush against his - if so desired - begins to overwhelm her, has her pressing her palms to her chest. Luckily, the room doesn’t hear how hard her heart beats (he does, though, and its force and rapidity drown out the noise from the atrium).

A smile, pretty and unpracticed, widens on her face, and she ventures to look up towards him, this tall and handsome stranger. She takes a deep breath, and schools her focus back to the painting.

She tips her chin at the Sunlight Through the Clouds, at the rays from the sun bathing the land and water beneath in a early-morning light, it is a serene scene. “Each day is a luxury, one that gives us a chance to start over or just keep going and trying. It’s a privilege to see the sunlight again.”

A soft hum punctuates her analysis. He regards her words, the sincerity of them (and the irony), and his shoulders relax further. He resists the urge to hide his hands, instead running them through his hair, tussling what he’d spent no insignificant amount of time styling.

“Hi,” she turns to him now, taking time to fully notice that his glow has returned, illuminating his face, and he is returning to her a breathtakingly pretty smile of his own. “I’m Surina.”

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Nathaniel. Nate,” he replies, his voice now syrupy-smooth and decadent. “I had originally planned to attend the lecture today but I do wonder if instead, I could treat you to a cup of tea or coffee?”

Oh, Nate is just as Surina hoped he would be, and hoped he would ask.

“Tea or coffee would be lovely. We can go to the cafe upstairs, and I'll catch you up on what we're missing."