FOREWORD: The image ofLady Aspen is based on Edgar Gambin's Birds of Paradise (again, I would provide a link, only if fictionpress would let me...). It was meant to be a poem originally, but it was too prosaic for that (and plus, no one reads epic poetry nowadays, do they?)

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SONGS FOR LADY ASPEN

“That is a beautiful song. What is it called?”

I look up, and for a moment – I’m seeing her, just as she was, all those years ago – but no, it’s just someone else.

“It’s called ‘Lady Aspen’,” I reply, removing the violin from the crook of my shoulder and placing it carefully back in its case. The stranger asks me to play it again, even offers money.

“It’s that beautiful,” he says.

“Because she’s that beautiful,” I say, shaking my head. I won’t play for people anymore. Just for the memory of her. Nodding, the stranger thinks he understands, and goes about his way. To where, I don’t know. I’ve been lost many times since I saw her.

And I can’t stop playing her songs. Everywhere I go, she inspires me. Staring around, I see the fields, see them green with envy – and the trees, standing cheerful, I see them bidding me play – and before I know it, my fingers are flowing over the fret board, eager to share her with them – so they might know –

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It was in a field that I met Lady Aspen.

Concealed by a flock of flamingos, she gazed through their feathers, fingering bands of gold resting lightly on her neck. Three of them caught my eye as I passed on the opposite side of the river. She did not notice the subtle jolt in my step. To this day, I still wonder. Who is she? Why is she there? And then, we pause.

She, across the river, an intimate shadow, deep and lingering, uncertain of me, across the river, a plain silhouette stunned by the sunset.

In the distance, she fingers the bands of gold, and a fourth catches my eye. It is a strange device, a bracelet with numbers and a restless hand. One as restless as hers, I discover, walking towards her, pretending to go on my way. Quiet, she charts my pace with dark, enquiring eyes, her mouth full of fear, and faintly on the verge of speech. Silent, she glows better than the sun, flawless, until my silhouette slides over her wrist, smothering her face. And then, we pause.

We don’t know what to say. Slowly…

I kneel.

Astounded, she watches me, amazed at the violin removed from its case. On its polished surface shine echoes of the sinking flares of the sun. I raise it to the crook of my shoulder. I pluck the strings. Flourish my bow. And then…

I play.

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“What are you playing? It sounds beautiful…”

I look up, and for a moment – I’m seeing her, watching me, just as she watched me, all those years ago – but no, it’s just someone else.

“It’s called ‘Lady Aspen’,” I reply, removing the violin from the crook of my shoulder and placing it carefully back in its case.

The stranger asks me who she is, “Who’s Lady Aspen?” Even asks me if she is beautiful, “Is she beautiful?”

“Yes,” I say, “she’s very beautiful.”

The sun is setting and my fingers ache. I have been playing her songs all day. The stranger, considering the passion hidden in its case, bids me ‘safe journey’ and goes about his way. I watch his bobbing figure diminish into light and remember leaving her behind, with the flock of flamingos – fingering the golden band she gave me.