That grand piano was to Gwen what sand was to ocean waves. I didn’t recognize the songs she played. But I didn’t need to. This wasn’t about singing along.
Watching her lips move, knowing she was singing despite the muted mic, had thoughts connecting in my mind for the first time.
Nearly a year, we had known each other. Nearly a year, we had been friends. But it wasn’t until this moment that I understood her.
The way she played brought all attention to the stage, every hair on every arm to its end, and every buried tear to the corner of each eye. Like each tap of the keys was a laced lasso cast out into the crowd. It twirled around my body, around the frame of everyone else, and held us captive. What she created, what she breathed into the world, silently took hold and demanded you feel it as deeply as she did. It wasn’t a plea or a request, but an insistence. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t ignore the heat that rose in my chest or the burn in my eyes.
Gwen Kane was an artist, sure. But this went deeper. She didn’t just create art. Shewasart.
Art captivated. It caught the eye, and it held you in place.
A beautiful, tortured being filled to the brim with sensibilities and suffering who could only ever relay such things this way because no words in any language could capture the broad scope of who she was.
She’d wrapped me up in ribbons long ago, ready at any moment to be what she wanted, what she needed. But now, I could see the threads. I saw who she was beneath the masked, guarded exterior. I saw all the vulnerability inside her that had roped me in, and I loved her even more for it.
I was her captive, and I wanted to stay in her chains for the rest of my days.
After complimenting Gwen’s performance,my stomach rumbled, and I asked if she was hungry. Her eyes lit up at the mention of food. The only place open at this time was a diner off a nearby highway. Half an hour later, just before midnight, that’s where we were.
While we sipped our drinks, waiting on our meals, I got the conversation going with, “It was amazing.You’reamazing.”
Rather than brushing me off with a passive wave of her hand, Gwen propped both hands beneath her chin and gave a big smile. “Why thank you.”
Returning the smile, a quiet laugh escaped me. “But I gotta ask.”
“About?”
“The mask.”
Confusion pinched her brows. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“It may be, but I had a seven-hour surgery today, so.” I sipped my coffee. “My head’s not all here at the moment.”
“Anonymity.” A casual shrug. “It’s the same reason I sing with my mic off. Before I came to the ranch, I performed at a couple bars. Even opened for some D-list musicians. If someone were to record me singing here and put it online, someone could put together who I am. That would blow my cover and endanger the ranch.”
Her answer only led to more questions. Who would find her? Her ex? Someone else? Who was she before? What did her voice sound like? Was it as magical as her piano?
But it was only curiosity. She found safety and comfort in her anonymity. What did the past matter anyway? Wasn’t it a future we were after?
“See,” I said, “you could’ve told me that it was just a part of the stage persona. That you were going for a classy meets goth vibe, and I would’ve believed you.”
She laughed. “Guess it’s a good disguise then.”
“A damn good one.” Leaning back in the red leather booth, I squinted her over. “So you were a singer, too?”
“I still sing,” she said. “Just not on a stage.”
“Are you any good?”
Narrowing her eyes, she gave a half smile. “I’m about as good at singing as you are at painting frogs smoking cigarettes.”
“Whew.” I clicked my tongue. “That’s a shame.”
She laughed. “Stop it. You’re an amazing artist.”
Was I skilled at duplicating an object’s likeness in paint on a canvas? Sure. Was that why I did it? No.
“I told you before, I’m a painter. Not an artist.”
