Sunset

by : Emily Burns

February 23rd, 2004.

---

"And now, Empire Theatres is proud to present...Iris Beading!"

"We would now like to present our Employee of the Year Award to.... Isaac Lamby!"

"How are you all doing tonight? Are you ready to ROCK?"

"Well, I'd like to thank all of you for actually showing up... I wouldn't have, the circumstances being otherwise...."

"Walking round this world with nothing, cause you just left me...Nothing, nothing, nothing...walk away from here....."

"...for, as comical as Basil can be, these ceremonies are still rather dull..."

"That song's for a guy that I knew, once....a guy that changed my entire view on the world."

"....so I'll stop making it more boring and get off the stage now. Oh. Thanks, everybody, by the by. Thanks so much. Goodnight."

---

A short woman with a smooth, creamy face and large sunglasses sat down in a cushy chair, crossing her legs. She sighed and opened a book. She hated waiting for her doctor, people always stared at her. She had the feeling that her doctor's confidentiality signature hadn't gone as far as his secretary. He always seemed to have ten patients just sitting there on the days she was booked for an appointment. She glanced behind her tainted glass at a staring man across the room with streaks of grey in his chestnut brown mane. She tried not to roll her eyes as his jaw dropped slightly with every second. Why did people care so much that every few nights, she got up on a stage and sang? It didn't make her any less human.

Isaac sighed and wiped his brow. He'd never had this much trouble with a shot before.

"Perhaps from the other angle, the ninety degree," suggested Omar, his best friend. He rolled his eyes.

"I can't shoot it from there or the idea of a shadow scene will be worthless. I want to work with the sunset, not film it in itself."

Omar shrugged, "Your picture, bud."

"Exactly."

He squinted into the lens and took a few shots, sighing again.

"Well, I've got to get to my doctor's appointment. We'd better go."

Omar grabbed the tripod, "What's this doctor's appointment for, anyway?"

"Routine stuff. Checkup, you know."

Doctor Smythe examined Iris' wrist with scrupulous eyes, "And you say that it aches when you hold the microphone?"

Iris pursed her lips, "And when I try to play guitar, and write, and type, and do absolutely anything with it. Holding the mic isn't a big deal, but if I can't play or write...that's the end of my songs, my career, you know?"

He nodded, "I understand, Iris, I understand completely. The only thing I worry about is your fans knowing about this. If you do get an operation for the problem, it will incapacitate you for playing anything for the next four months, minimum."

Her eyes widened, "That means cancelling the rest of the tour!"

"That's right, and personally, I think you should whether or not you have the procedure. It's swelling up when you try and turn a doorknob handle, Iris. There is a lot of pressure built up in there."

"What if I learn to play with my left hand instead?"

"You won't have enough time. You've known the right hand since you were a child, I remember. You've hardly the strength in your other arm to be ready for a show so soon."

Her eyes filled with frustrated tears, "Aren't there pills?"

"Anti-inflamatories, yes, but they will not completely stop the swelling at this level, and the pain will still be prominent."

"So I basically have no choice."

"You should cancel your tour."

The doctor's office closed behind him with a 'click.' He sat down stiffly into one of the soft-backed chairs and rubbed inconspicuously at his wrist. He hadn't wanted to tell Omar, but his doctor had suggested an operation to him for the pains he'd been having. He didn't want to think about it. Not being able to photograph for months? Unbearable, more unbearable than the pain he would face without it, surely...

"HOW CAN I CANCEL MY TOUR?" a voice rang out from behind a cubicle's wall. Isaac furrowed his brow.

The door opened, and Doctor Smythe led out a pretty young woman, who looked rather upset. He strained his ears.

"... if you have the operation right away, perhaps you can only delay the tour for a short amount of time... it isn't the end of the world, Iris....of course not.... you'll be able to play by the end of this year, most definitely, as long as you don't....no, you cannot practice rehabilitation until I tell you....that means no guitar, no....Iris, please understand....I only want what's best for you..."

She shook her head angrilly, wrenching her arm away from Doctor Smythe's grasp.

"I don't need you, or your stupid diagnosis. I will finish my tour, and then I'll find another doctor who can actually help me instead of trying to set me back!"

She began towards the door, and reached out for the handle.

The woman stopped suddenly, her face frozen in pain.

"Miss?" Isaac stepped toward her concernedly, "Miss, are you alright?"

She breathed shallowly through her lips, and managed a smile at him.

"I'm a baby. I'll be fine."

"You have carpal tunnel too, don't you?"

She gave him a wary look, "Are you from the press?"

"Why would you ask that?" he frowned at her, then realized what she was staring at. He glanced down at her the camera about his neck and laughed.

"Oh, this. No. I'm a photographer, but I only do stills and landscapes. I don't photograph people, I'm not one of those pesky paparazzi folk. Why, do you get that a lot? Do you look like somebody from Hollywood, then?"

This man doesn't know who I am, she realized with a start. It had been a very long time since she'd met somebody who lived under that heavy a rock. She smiled at him, deciding that she liked him.

"Something like that, yes."

His brown eyes twinkled, "What's her name?"

She grinned as he held the door open for her, "Somebody that a lot of people have heard of, actually. I'm not her biggest fan."

"Well, she must be beautiful."

She blushed. She honestly was blushing. She couldn't believe it.

She surveyed him, then pulled a piece of paper from her purse. She wrote her number on it, without a name.

"You've got to have your appointment with the crook," she smiled, handing it to him, "but when you're done, give me a call. I'll be in the neighbourhood."

He raised his cinnamon eyebrows in surprise, "I will. I definitely will."

"So, what do you think?"

"I think that you'd better stay away from that bloody girl," Doctor Smythe grumbled as he led Isaac into his office, "She's dangerous."

"I think she's lovely," contradicted Isaac, still in a bit of shock from the scene outside of the office.

Doctor Smythe glared at him, "You would."

"So, how's my wrist, Doctor, seeing as that's why I'm here."

The doctor pulled out a series of charts, "Well, Isaac, you're going to need that operation. That's all I can say," he sighed, "And I'll be damned if you'll have the same reaction as that silly girl."

Isaac frowned at him, "Stop talking about her. What if I don't want this operation? Are there pills?"

The doctor looked flabbergasted, "You young things always want quick cures! Nothing can help your situation, or hers, unless you have the ruddy operation! That's final!"

"She does have it too, then?"

"Of course she does, of course. But you didn't hear that from me, alright? I don't need to be sued by somebody who makes more money in one hour than I do in my entire lifetime."

"What does she do?"

Doctor Smythe laughed, and handed him a prescription.

"Take these pills in the meantime, for the swelling. Your operation date will be faxed to you."

"Thanks."

ring

Iris' mouth curved into a smile as she pressed the 'talk' button on her cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello...er...I was given this number earlier today by-"

"I know who you are, sir. I never caught your name, by the way."

"Do you want to meet somewhere? I'm out of the office."

"How about the café down the street from the office?" she suggested, sipping her latte, "I'll meet you there in five."

"Done."

They clicked off at the same time.

The first thing he saw were the legs. Long, smooth, creamy. The calves just visible before the rest disappearing beyond the biscuit trenchcoat. He looked up to see her intensely violet eyes gazing at him.

"Good afternoon."

"Ditto," she replied, smiling. She patted a seat beside her, and he sat.

He rubbed his wrists, "He makes them ache something awful, eh?"

She nodded, "So, what do you do for a living?"

"I already told you that," he reminded her, "I'm a photographer."

"Wife? Children?"

"I'm married to my photos."

"Ah, a Mormon."

"In a way, I suppose. What about you?"

"My writing keeps me afloat."

"A writer. Beautiful," he grinned, leaning back in his chair, "We should do a piece for the paper together."

She furrowed her brow, a smirk playing at her lips, "Work together? No. No, isn't that what ruins most relationships?"

"We have a relationship?"

"There's potential, don't you agree?"

He smirked right back at her, "Perhaps."

"So," she cocked her head slightly, "What do you look for in a woman? I mean, of course, in a photo."

His eyes fluttered closed.

"What do I see in a photo. What a question."

"Answer to the best of your ability, of course. There is no right or wrong."

"Thanks for that. I see....I see....a meadow. A meadow with butterflies...butterflies with extended wings, and they're reaching out, as if to touch me.....and the meadow is green and golden, with a blue sky."

"A blonde woman with blue eyes who constantly wants to touch you?"

He snapped his gaze to her, "You know, for a writer, you're not very romantic."

"Actually," she crossed her legs, "I'm probably three times more romantic than you are."

"And you. What do you see in a man?"

She smiled wistfully, "I see....I see a man with lovely broad shoulders. And brown hair and brown eyes. And a romantic face. And a way with words."

"Does this man have carpal tunnel syndrome?"

"Of course he does."

"Your hands are lovely."

"They're corrupted. All writer's hands are corrupted, you know."

"How?"

"They're always touching things, writing things that aren't meant to be said or written. They're exchanged with money. They're always getting into things that they shouldn't be getting into, just for the sake of it."

"I lied."

"You don't think my hands are lovely anymore?"

"No, I mean, I lied about not taking photos of anything that I shouldn't be. I do take photos of things that shouldn't be photographed."

"We're not talking children, or women getting changed in the comforts of their homes, right?"

"No...sunsets. Sunsets should never be photographed."

"Why?"

"Because, don't you understand? Sunsets are to savour. They're to remember, to be in the moment. When one is taking a photo, one is stealing a moment, but not living it."

"I understand completely."

"So when is your book tour starting?"

"What book tour?"

"You're a writer, and I heard you talking about cancelling your tour in Smythe's office."

"Oh....oh. Well. Isaac, I hate to tell you this. I really do."

"What?"

"There's something else."

"What else?"

"I...I am a writer, but I'm not just a writer."

"What else? A drug dealer? A lawyer, what could be so horrible that you couldn't tell me?"

"A rock icon."

"What?"

"That's why I was so afraid you were with the press. If the press found out about my situation..."

"You're a rock star? Iris, we've been spending the past three weeks together, non-stop, I've told you everything about me and you're hiding the fact that every once in a while you get up on a huge stage and get worshipped by a bunch of screaming adolescents for two hours?"

"It's not like that..."

"Then what's it like? You conveniently forgot?"

"Well, I haven't been thinking about it much lately...."

"Sorry about that, didn't mean to get in the way of your career."

"You aren't!"

"Well, if I'm not, I definitely will. What kind of famous songstress dates a still-photographer, anyway?"

"This kind!"

"Well, not anymore. I can't believe I wasted my time with somebody who just screwed me around!"

"How did I screw you around, Isaac? I didn't tell you because everybody else in the world knows! I wanted you to just be mine, not anybody else's! I wanted to tell you everything that I can't tell everybody else. And I did. I wanted to have somebody who didn't care about my money or my fame. You don't."

"I wouldn't have, Iris."

"Then prove it. Stay with me now. Stay with me, and promise me that you won't get corrupted by it."

"I promise."

"Don't promise! You were just about to walk away! Don't make promises that you know you can't keep!"

"You'll never give me a chance to keep it! You know what? Forget it."

"Forget what? It's been three weeks, Isaac. It was nothing."

"Exactly."

"Get away from here."

"Gladly, Iris. Gladly."

She rolled herself up in the sheets they'd been laying in, and inhaled his scent. He smelled like musk, as opposed to all of her silly little "star" dates from the past, who had worn flowery, girly perfumes.

"Walking round this world with nothing, cause you just left me," she sang to herself, not bothering to wipe the tears streaking down her cheeks, "Nothing, nothing, nothing...walk away from here."

She cried herself to sleep that night.

It was late. He could barely see a thing.

He took a swig of his newly-bought red wine, something he decided was very tasteful, perhaps too tasteful for this particular occasion, where his only object was to get so drunk that he wouldn't be able to feel the pain of losing her.

He whipped out his camera. He glared at it, then dropped it onto the cement. The glass cracked.

"On walks the night," she whispered between hiccups, in her dreams, "on walks the night of fragile glass and broken dolls, on walks the night of frozen whispers and catacalls..."

He dropped to his knees, and watched as his tears dropped onto the broken glass. It didn't mend, like in fairytales. He wept in the streets of New York.

Doctor Smythe lost two clients that week.

---

"And now, Empire Theatres is proud to present...Iris Beading!"

"We would now like to present our Employee of the Year Award to.... Isaac Lamby!"

"How are you all doing tonight? Are you ready to ROCK?"

"Well, I'd like to thank all of you for actually showing up... I wouldn't have, the circumstances being otherwise...."

"Walking round this world with nothing, cause you just left me...Nothing, nothing, nothing...walk away from here, into my sunset, to savour, the loss of losing you..."

"...for, as comical as Basil can be, these ceremonies are still rather dull..."

"This song's for a guy that I knew, once....a guy that changed my entire view on the world."

"....so I'll stop making it more boring and get off the stage now. Oh. Thanks, everybody, by the by. Thanks so much. Goodnight."