Summary: This is the story of Olivia Christenson, the possessor of ravishing beauty and incomparable musical talent. Daniel, a musician of mediocre fame, loves her to the point of unhealthiness even though she’s far too young and beautiful for him. But she only sees another man, who tossed her aside. Meanwhile, fame come knocking...

I like to think that this story won’t be what you think. I like to think it's part tragedy and part fairytale, but what do I know? I don't promise it's great literature, but I hope it's a pretty good read.

Start!

*

I didn’t fall in love with her instantly. I don’t think anyone did, back then (though falling for her in under five minutes was possible). She was too unapproachable, too cold; I imagine people would walk past her on the street and feel like a icy gale had thrust past them. They would shiver and hug their coats around themselves so they could feel comfortable in the warm humanness of their flesh. Back then, I doubt strangers even thought she had human flesh; they probably assumed that if they touched her she would feel like glass, or perhaps like scales—a million thin, translucent scales as thin and perfect as moth’s wings. Maybe some assumed she was some hallucination. It would be later that men and women alike would fling themselves to her feet, sobbing, in the snow, begging to touch her hand or for a lock of her sun-colored hair. But this was a time when she was still hiding under that cloak of anonymity.

And no, there was no instant psychic connection. I had no premonition of what she would do to my life and my art and my self. In fact, I didn’t think she had anything to do with me. She was a curiosity, a spectacle in her grace and stillness; compelling and brimming with fiery eyes. She was a sunset burst across the otherwise calm sky; I assumed she would follow the law of sunsets and pass, subside in calm night.

First, I should introduce myself. It was May and I was a musician of uncommon skill but mediocre fame. I opened for the openers for a famous band, like that; but we, my band and I, were on the rise. In some circles, my band, Animal Eyes, was lauded as the next Radiohead. We enjoyed lofty spots on critics’ year-end lists. What did we play? Well, you’ll learn soon that I don’t believe in written descriptions of music. We played “indie rock,” whatever that means to you; to us it meant a transcendental sound, somewhere between an anthem and a hymn.

Personally, well, I’m not the kind of person you would expect to be romancing a woman that stunning. I was thirty, I was small but strong, I had a dimple in my right cheek and a self-deprecating manner of speech. I had an always boyish face and a shock of well-kept brunette hair.

Anyway, the story. Do you want to meet her? Of course you do.

*

“She’s here.” Mike said conspiratorially, plopping down next to me on the stage, two beers in hand.. Our bands were setting up for a show that night in Washington DC; Mike was my sound guy and the guitarist for Animal Eyes’ openers, The Tusks. He thin and limber like a stick of hay; his face burned with a rustling excitement. I paid more attention to the beer than to what he was saying.

“Who?” I asked, uninterested.

He lingered on and savored the syllables like they were some exotic spice. “Ol-i-vi-a”

And then she was. Jesus, I still didn’t know who she was, but the moment she came into the room I didn’t know who I ways. We sat like dull hounds before the sunrise. That place, that stage, was murky and dank, except for around her, she burned. The lines of her face, simultaneously, impossibly, both sharp and soft were luminescent and pure like a voice hitting the perfect note; around her heart-shaped jaw tumbled thick, fat waves of amber hair that shifted softly as she moved and seemed to release hidden sunlight from its depth. Of course, her eyes, what eyes, what insane god gave a woman eyes like that. A calm, smoldering blue the color of a baby’s blanket but powerful as a typhoon; otherworldly, entrancing, shielded by long, delicate lashes.

I don’t want to disrespect her, so I won’t go into such a poetic tangent about this: but let’s just say her body was beyond belief.

There was not a single thought in my head. I couldn’t have told you my name, if you had asked.

“Olive!” Mike called out, waving at her.

Who was she, again? I glared at Mike, willing him to psychically transmit the answer to me.

It was such a pleasure to watch her lope towards us, with those insane legs of hers. I was staring despite myself, so when she looked at me our eyes touched. She dropped my gaze first, as if embarrassed.

“Hi, I’m Olive.” She said in a soft voice that was somehow heard in every crack of that room.

“I’m Dan.” I said, dazed. We shook hands; her hand was firm and small and warm.

Keep in mind, here, that I wasn’t smitten. I didn’t have any romantic or smutty thoughts chasing through my head. I was in the middle of a stable relationship with a pretty and age appropriate writer (although things between us were winding down, even if I didn’t know it at the time.) I thought of her kind of like an alien or a swan; fascinating and impossible to look away from, but in the end a different species.

“I’m such a fan of yours. Really, I went to your Seattle show when I was in high school and it absolutely amazed me. It’s a little unbelievable that I actually met you.” Olive confessed, with an earnest, crinkling smile that turned my insides to jello.

“Thank you… that means a lot to me.” I replied honestly, caught in an awkward and surprised half-smile. Mike looked on, chuckling but stormy. He gulped down some beer.

“I’m sure you get it all the time.”

I did, but somehow it meant a lot coming from her. Being around her put you in a certain dazed state of unreality. She was my fan. How thrilling.

Just then, Peter bounced into the room.

A brief introduction of Peter; he is in, essence, a minor character in our drama (sorry, Peter, if you’re reading this, but it’s true.) but he is important enough. Peter was the cutest man alive, not attractive, mind you, but cute. He was very timid, but when he was happy his face would scrunch up like a squeezed sponge and he would roll and clap with glee. Was he attractive? Yes, he was, better looking than me at least. There was something fragile, something sunny, something tragic about him—anyways. He fronted the band opening for us, the Tusks, and wrote somber and emotive music.

At the sight of Olive his eyes lit up with eager adoration.

“Olive, you made it!” he said happily.

Her face melted like butter at the sight of him. Suddenly it was painfully aware how distant she had been with us; I felt a little out-of-place, and I’m sure Mike did too even if he kept grinning at them like an idiot.

Peter grabbed her hands and led her out of the room, talking in an excited low voice. Then the door slammed and the air was crisp and cold with the sound of silence.

I don’t know what expression was on my face, but it must have been hilarious because Mike burst into laughter and pinched my nose.

“Ow.” I complained. Mike laughed again and released me. Was he drunk already? A sneer played around the corners of his mouth.

“And you don’t know half of it, man. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to be born like that.” I’m not sure if he was talking to me or himself. “You have no idea what she can do to a man. How can someone be like that? How can someone look like that and be so talented and so sweet? It’s humbling, man.”

“So, who is she?” I asked finally.

“Peter’s girlfriend.” Mike spat derisively, like his band mate (and boss, of sorts; Peter did write the songs, after all), his brother, of sorts, was a beast.

I said nothing. I would have said, “well, good for Peter,” if the atmosphere had been different. But it was heavy and angry and tasted of lead. Our East-Coast tour had been going on for three weeks. Through it all Mike had constantly teased Peter about his girlfriend; suddenly, it was obvious why, suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

I fidgeted. I wished someone would come in and free me from this moment.

“Why Peter?” He enunciated the words like they were sour. “He’s like seven years older than her, you know? He’s all shy and weird and you know, acts like the world is about to crush him. She could have anyone she wanted. She could be a supermodel. Or a movie star. Even if she wasn’t she could fuck other supermodels or movie stars, easy. Instead she’s just fucking Peter. For god’s sake!”

“Maybe it’s chemistry? It looked like they had a connection.” I offered. I liked Peter.
Mike glowered at me. “It wasn’t chemistry. It was an arbitrary decision. She looked at him and learned that he was a musician and said to herself, ‘oh, he’ll do.’ It could have been me, it could have been you, but to do time and space and random chance it was that stupid kid.” His voice broke. “I can’t help but imagine her looking at me and not Peter.”

Silence on my end. My knuckles were white around my beer bottle.

“You think you get it, Dan, but you don’t; you won’t until you hear her sing and watch her play. I promise you. Just watch her sing and you’ll fall in love too.”

*

A/N: Chapter one: fin! Nice to meet you, heartbreaker. Anyway, I beg of you, if you have managed to finish this chapter to review. Really, it’s just depressing when there are no reviews. Just one word will do!

Expect me to update this obsessively for a couple of days, then trail off. Will I finish it? I don’t know, hopefully.

Review!