The Pearls
She was standing on the porch looking at the sunset. Her gaze seemed as distant as the sun. The kids had called; he had taken her to her favorite restaurant and bought her flowers, all the usual birthday fare. But this was no ordinary birthday; it was one of those decades changing birthdays that women dread. She had been distant, distracted, all day. She laughed off all the wise cracks, over the hill, nifty fifty, and the bottle of Geritol, all the things that people say and do in jest to usher in the new decade. She took it all in stride, but there is always that residue left by such things that lingers.
The evening breeze caressed her cheek and ran invisible fingers through her hair until strands fell into her face. Absently she would hook them around her ear just to have them fall again. Melancholy; that was the mood he was searching for as he watched her from the shadows.
They had been together for years, happy years, sad years, good years and bad years. They fought, made up, fought again and made up again, just like every married couple that ever was. Lately, though, they had stopped fighting. The silence was deafening. Life’s little irritations had gotten the best of them. Like grains of sand irritate the eyes, and left unchecked can cause serious scars, every little problem seemed to embed under their flesh and become festering sores. When an oyster gets a grain of sand embedded in its flesh it simply makes a pearl. Maybe it was time to make some beautiful pearls.
“Back in the good old days,” when they had a chance to go out without the kids, dinner was a prelude to love and lovemaking. It really became the main focus of the evening. Now when they got home after an evening out, she headed to her remote and he to his. Mars and Venus were cohabiting the same solar system but in different orbits. It was time for Mars to move to Venus. Quietly he moved out of the shadows to her. He didn’t know what to say or do but he was going to make pearls. Funny, after all these years he still felt awkward, boyish, approaching her.
“Violins, mood music, wine, anything!” he thought. He slipped behind her, wrapping his arms around her, entwining his hands in hers.
“Violin,” he said softly, almost inaudibly.
She cocked her head, puzzled, “What did you say?”
Embolden he continued, “Stradivarius violin.” He blurted out.
She turned to face him, a puzzled look on her face. He gently placed his hands on her cheeks and ran them slowly her neck to her arms, grasping her hands. He pulled her close, looked deep into her eyes and kissed her slowly, longingly. His passion rose along with his courage.
“YOU are my Stradivarius in a world of ordinary violins. Do you know what a Stradivarius is?” Without waiting for a reply he continued, “Stradivarius violins are the best ever made. They were made by a man named Stradivari many years ago on Italy. He and his family lovingly chose the right wood and varnish and all the materials that go into a violin. He sat for hours crafting the wood, finishing the instrument to perfection. When a maestro plays his own Stradivarius the most beautiful sound fills the air titillating the ears and stirring the soul. The maestro and the instrument become one.”
As he talked he stroked her back and nibbled her neck. He continued, “Scientists have been trying for years to duplicate his creations but can’t seem to get it quite right.”He had her undivided attention as he continued, “I know the secret though, Stradivari put a little bit of his soul into every violin. When a rosined bow draws across the strings the maestro frees that soul’s beauty so it can so it can thrill all who listen. Your beauty comes from the soul like the Stradivarius violin.”
She was speechless. This had come from a man who had barely said five words to her all week! She remained silent so she wouldn’t break the mood. She trembled inwardly at his touch. The same hands callused by years of hard work were now silky as they moved across her body. They stood in silence as the sun disappeared. Night’s shadows engulfed them as they gently swayed to the beat of the music only they could hear. He bent to kiss her parted lips, the years melted as passion rose.
“I want to make beautiful music with my Stradivarius tonight,” He said softly.
She felt his desires. She took his hand and pulled him inside the house and up the stairs to the bed they had shared all these years. Through the night they played. Encore after encore. Minuets and waltzes, slow soft sonnets to the rapid hard edged bluegrass beat. The finale was always the same, The 1812 Overture with cannons exploding to the rhythm of the music that they thought only they heard. As the moon began its nightly ritual, a look of rapture appeared on its glowing face, like a classical music aficionado gets, as they drink in the symphony’s performance, eyes closed, ears glowing with pleasure and passion, never wanting the night to end.
As he awoke the sun shone brightly in the room. As she lay sleeping, he heard the gentle rhythm of her slumber. As his eyes adjusted slowly to the light he could swear he saw a beautiful strand of pearls around her neck glistening in the light!