VAN MORRISON LIVE ON STAGE

I.

And the

Cold harshness

Of time

(dissolves)

When we hear

Him sing

(live)

On stage

(angels)

Married to

Their wings

(sing)

Of God

(he wears)

A bonnet

Of blood

(crown)

Of clouds

(limits)

Without bounds

(sings)

Ripe roses

At dawn

He reaches over and kisses her, on her lips, her neck, he reaches over and squeezes her left
breast, hands careful not to touch the lump he pretends isn't there, as if by rubbing around but never touching it, it will cease to exist. Yet his hands avoid the flesh that needs his touch the most, if only to reunite with the rest of her body.

The phone rings and he picks it up.

"Hello?" he says, and hands her the phone. "It's your son." She rolls her eyes as he gets out
of bed, naked, and walks out of the room into the kitchen. She flips her hair and rubs her hands over her face before placing the receiver against her ear.

"Hello, George."

The lover walks back with a Corona in one hand and a lime wedge in the other, slowly rubbing the lime around the lip of the bottle, watching her conversation. He twists the lime while mimicking her distracted responses; he watches her watching him. When at last she hangs up the phone, they remain silent, until finally he asks, "Do you know why they put the lime in the Corona?"

He waits for the decorous shake of her head before continuing.

"It's from Mexico, and everyone used to put the bottles in ice chests to keep them cold. But
after hours under the sun, the ice melted, leaving the beer sitting in a puddle of dirty water.
They rubbed the lime around the tip so the citric acid could sterilize the bottle before they
drank. Eventually people started dropping the lime wedge into the beer, which lead to America where that's all we do, oblivious to its original purpose. Because our water's so clean, it means nothing."

"Just like everything else,"

He somberly nods. "So? Did you tell him?"

"No, I didn't want to ruin his Christmas."

"You'd rather he spends it in ignorance?"

"No," she says. "I'd rather he spends it in peace."

"Is there a difference?"

"Fuck you," she replies and wishes she hadn't. Her lips lower and whisper, "Baby, I'm scared. Really scared."

"You have to have strength now. Courage." He grabs a cigarette from the pack on the bureau behind him, lights it and exhales, "You know why I love you?"

"No, why?"

"Because you're so mutable. You could turn from the villain to the victim in the span of a
scream."

"You don't love me," she says, "you love the actress."

He smiles, "Sometimes I think that's all you are. And that's okay, that's what you need. You do it out of necessity. But right now you have to play the heroine."

She turns away, towards the bedside table and squirts a dollop of moisturizing lotion into her
palm. She proceeds to rub her hands over her legs, ignoring him, smiling a lime wedge and bottle in his hands. When she finishes she clasps her hands together and looks up at him, renewed and amnesiac, eyes betraying the sudden distaste in her mouth. "Should we open our presents?"

He nods and walks over to the bed, sits beside her and rubs the skin still warm from her
friction. "Yes," he says, "let's."

You may remember the avocado cashmere scarf the actress wore in Binds of Love. You may even recall that fateful scene when Elliott Gould grabbed the scarf in a fit of passion and wrapped her hands, bound in cashmere, around his neck. You may remember how that role did for avocado cashmere scarves what Jackie Onassis did for Pink, what Audrey Hepburn did for Tiffany's. In all the hippest bars and discos, the swankiest dinner parties and performances, women donned the avocado cashmere scarf in hopes to glean that which had so gracefully shined upon the actress, the scarf's sexually perverse connotations forgotten. It was this same avocado cashmere scarf that inhabited the young lover's most vivid childhood memories; he and his mother, hand in hand walking down the street, the scarf wrapped casually around her neck. And so it was not a secondary task for the young lover to find the true, original avocado cashmere scarf, abandoned in the attic of the late producer's home, discovered by his spurned daughter and sold through an obscure auction house. But find it he did.

"Here," he says, handing her the box. "You open your present first."

"Okay," she says, and begins to unwrap; at first with a self-conscious deliberation that slowly
evolves into a frenetic explosion of cardboard and paper until at last she sits, the opened
package in her lap, the avocado cashmere scarf lying limp across her legs.

He stares at her, wicked with anticipation, "You do remember it, don't you?" She sits there
speechless, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Is something wrong?" he asks. "Don't you remember it? It's the scarf  from Binds of Love."

"I remember," she begins, "the first time Elliott and I had to perform that scene. I was so
nervous. He walked up to me and put his arm around my shoulders and said, 'You're going to be famous for this.' He said, 'Whether or not you become anything else is up to you. Just don't stop.' And I tried not to stop, I kept going and going but it was no fucking good!"

"Baby," the young lover says, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"No fucking good! Did I just give up? I can't even remember. I must have because that's all I
am anymore, famous, and only cult-famous at that. And look at fucking Elliott! He's fucking
goddamn Beverly D'Angelo and I'm just fucked!" He reaches to slide the scarf from between her legs, oblivious, as she shouts, "But that's all over, goddamnit! It's a new age!" She jumps off the bed and runs naked to her address book on the bureau. "I'm calling Sylva right now and telling him he better get me some work. A new fucking age!"

"But Baby, it's Christmas morning."

She turns and glares desperation in his direction. "Fuck you," she says and picks up the phone. "Hello, Sylva? "That's right, it's me. Merry Christmas to you too. Listen, I'm sorry to be calling you now, but I haven't heard from you in some time and I--" she switches the phone from ear to ear, frustrated and anxious, as Sylva interrupts her.

"What's that? Oh, that's wonderful. But about my-- "

"What? Oh, you mean George. No, he's doing well, he's got children of his own--

"Yes, but about some work--"

"Well, no, actually. I don't think it's inappropriate at all to be calling now, I haven't heard
from you in some time and I--"

"Yes, but Sylva, I'm telling you I want to work now--

"Well, I don't think that's really fair, but--

"Right, Monday morning, I'll give you a call. Fine. See you then. Oh, Merry Christmas to you
too."

She hangs up the phone, head bowed, whether in meditation or sorrow he cannot tell. She turns to him, just a boy sitting on the bed, an amalgam of concern and irritation, new age avoiding the eyes of the old; and she says, "Well. Shall we open yours?"

And somewhere, in a long forgotten canister, in an abandoned warehouse, sits that moment
preserved: The actress, the wrinkles yet to curse her face, straddling the idea of Elliott Gould's limp, lifeless body between her legs, fucking him as tears stream down her face, smearing her mascara.

"You wanted this," she cries. "This is what you wanted me to do."

She pauses and reaches toward his face, the skin still warm to the touch, the rouge stripe around his neck yet to fade. She pauses, and then continues.

Jacob Aiello is a college sudent pursuing a degree in English Literature. You can view an example of his graphic art work on the Industry News Page.  

ALL READERS WILL NOTE that this is an original work of fiction. Any similarity that may exist between these characters and actual indviduals, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.