Entangled

She looks into his eyes, "Does it mean that if you uncover one half of that secret, you can deduce the other?"

"Hmmm... interesting question..."

***

"What was your major in uni?"

"Lit. A minor in Philosophy."

"Ah! A humanist! What do you do?"

"I enjoy putting pen to paper. Packing and unpacking words. Publishing, journalism, creative writing, and the like. If they would have me. I've just begun freelance writing as a starter step."

"And your ambition?"

"An accomplished creative writer. Maybe a Julian Barnes, a Kazuo Ishiguro or a Zadie Smith, but increasingly with my own imprint as I assert my craft. I give myself five years."

He continues, "That said, there is the writer, and there is writing. I want to write because I'm enamoured of writing. Not because I like the idea of being a writer. People romanticise the idea of a writer."

He has a clipped public school precise way of speech. A little courtly.

"You can't force creativity. But, you need to force the start of your creativity."

"That's a good tip. I'll remember that."

"So, how does a writer go about his craft?"

"A writer is obsessed with inventing stories for people he comes across. An overwhelming curiosity makes him ask himself what their lives might be like. He wants to know what they do. Where they are from. Their names. What they may be thinking of at that moment. What they regret. What they hope for. Whom they have loved. What they have dreamed of. And if they happen to be women, then, the urge becomes intense. How quickly he will want to see her naked. Naked through to her heart. Learn where she is coming from. Where she is going. Why she is here and not elsewhere. While letting his eyes wander all over her, he imagines love affairs for her. Ascribes deep feelings to her. He thinks of what her bedroom might look like. And a thousand things besides..."

"So, what's my story?"

"We've just met. I'm still figuring..."

"And you, Isabel? What do you do?"

She studies him. The right corner of his mouth slants upward, and his eyes half-close, almost owlish if in dim light.

He has a quality of interpretability. She can find in him more or less whatever that she is looking for. Clever but not cynical, involved but not aggressive.

"I was a raging, raving, ranging corporate warrior. The archetype of the species."

"Mum was too."

"Hmmm... the Quantum Entanglement messin' with us."

"Go on."

"I retired a year ago from the insanity. Living up my belated gap year. The gap year wasn't invented yet in my time, you see."

"Where are the places you'd like to immerse in?"

"The places that drove me nuts during my corporate road warrior days, where I could never get anything done. Hawaii, Tahiti, Latin America, Spain, Greece, Portugal, Thailand, Indonesia. I saw a great many things in these places, but always from afar. They say living well is the best revenge. I want to go back to these places to do just that."

"Isabel, you're so devastatingly rational."

Admiring his clamshell burst of chest, "You're a competitive swimmer, aren't you?"

"How can you tell?"

"Because I was one too."

"Mum was too. I'm sure you already know that."

They look at each other as if searching for themselves.

"I'm intrigued by your Creative Writing ambition. Is there any particular theme that captivates you?"

"Transcendence"

"Your inspiration for that?"

"Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being."

"I've watched the film, but not read the book. What's it about the work that so inspires you?"

"Challenging Nietzsche's concept of Eternal Recurrence. The idea that the universe and its events have already occurred and will recur ad infinitum."

"The story suggests the alternative. That each person has only one life to live, and that which occurs in life occurs only once and never again. Thus, the 'lightness' of being. This lightness also signifies freedom. The characters, Tomáš and Sabina live this lightness. Whereas Tereza's character is weighed down."

"Interesting. I never thought of the film that way. But, then again, I've never pondered much about the inflight movies I watched, or rather, half watched, in my business flying days. Tell me more."

"The unbearable lightness also refers to the lightness of love and sex. Love is fleeting, haphazard and possibly based upon endless strings of coincidences, despite holding much significance for humans."

"Hmmm... And how is sex light?"

Maybe she is too forward. He doesn't answer. He asks her a question as if in answer.

"Tell me, Isabel, which was your moment of highest transcendence? Apart from induced transcendence from alcohol, substances, lovemaking."

"If I know I've a disposition to be moved by soulful music, and I consciously choose to listen to my fav music in that genre, in the quiet solitude of the night, does that count as induced?"

"No"

"Why not? How is music different from, say, alcohol or weed? Does morality weigh in on this?"

"Not really. Morality applies to people, not things. Alcohol is a thing. Alcohol abuse is immoral."

"I guess transcendence is a range, an infinite continuum, defying particular definition. As is anything sublime. If the word sublime means anything at all."

"The French have a charming way to call the sublime. Je ne sais quoi. Pronounced something like 'zhuh nuh say kwah'. Simply, it means 'I don't know what'. But, it's more. That indefinable quality that sets a particular individual apart. That others are attracted to. Personal appeal, charisma, charm. By its very meaning, it can't be quantified, nothing tangible. That is what's so great about it."

"We may be overthinking this. Let's get back to transcendence."

A good question. A question that is larger than its answer, even though she is still working on the answer. She mines hard and deep.

"Once, I had a rare couple of days of idle time on a business trip because I unexpectedly closed a difficult substantial deal ahead of schedule. This in itself was a bearable lightness of being."

Chuckles.

Continuing, "On impulse, I visited a mountain monastery. It pushed high and pressed into the clouds. The air was thin and true. A lovely rustic chapel of soaring architecture, yet, with plenty of glass and skylight for all to see the light. A fairy tale garden in flourish. The monastery crouched on a slender ridge. Drop dead gorgeous views both sides of the ridge. Seaview on one, mountain the other. Beautiful biblical art works on the walls. A glorious high hit me during the evening prayers, vespers, amid the lifting gospel music and the lilting choir singing."

She pauses, as if awed by her own account.

Continuing, "I'm not particularly invested in faith. Kind of a cultural Christian. Why do you think I felt that way?"

James thoughtfully, "Transcendence to the power of four."

"What?"

"The garden and awe-inspiring scenery are Nature. The architecture and artworks are Art. The gospel music and choir are Music. And you're in a religious realm. Nature, Art, Music, Religion in a singularity hit. All the inspiration realms of humanity, secular and religious, in unity."

"It didn't occur to me then..."

"The religious hierarchy understood the human need for transcendence. This is not by accident. They conspired to gather all the forces in one place, in one moment. And that was the sum of your experience. Physical as in the physical mountain, the artworks, the building, and yet, abstract. Multidimensional, yet one. Fleeting, yet enduring."

"James, I'm convinced. You're going to be a successful writer. The rush of detail makes me giddy. But, you relish it. You appear to yearn to be lost, childlike, in the detail of life, to wonder at its texture."

He gazes wistfully at the ocean, as if seeking a suitable question from its vastness.

"You were a kickass corporate warrior. And yet, the things you say, you're quite a philosopher."

She contemplates, and looks wise. In a philosophical tone, "No, I'm not a philosopher."

She adds, "Though I did humour Philosophy and Lit as uni minors. I sold myself to the Devil. I offered myself prostate at the altar of Science and Business, and never looked up since."

"I'd like to know. How do you make sense of the tension between Science and the Arts?"

"The artist in me observes. The scientist in me orders these observations into patterns. The writer in me takes notes. The scientist shakes her head in despair, tells the artist she is a hopeless dreamer. But, they make some kind of peace. And so, I am placid."

"In your career, how did you resolve matters when you were conflicted between head and heart?"

"It's all in the sequence. Apply head first, then, overlay heart. Never the reverse. That way, you're always on terra firma. It's alright if you swing the heart way, because you made an informed decision. Ultimately, the right decision is the decision you're at peace with. At peace at the time you take the decision. More importantly, at peace with the eventual outcome, whether it pans out positive or negative."

She studies James. Head first. Then heart. Not his. Hers.

He is studying her too. Did he see the furrow on her forehead? He knows. That she doesn't know.

A charming young man. A magical place. A timeless time.

He has touched a place in her heart deeper than she thought he is capable of reaching. Or, has she fallen into lust, mistaking its lighter tones for something else?

There is a line between fascination and love. But, it is hard to see. They give the same sensation.

***

"You see the arc sliver of white down there. A secluded beach cove. It's too late now. Too cold. We'll go down there for a swim tomorrow."

"Wonderful"

***

Chapter 7

Day 2

They thread down the hewn path. James observes that for someone who is negotiating this dizzy pathway for the first time, Isabella is nimble as a goat.

Isabella drops her robe. James instinctively drops his eyes to the sand for no particular reason, in spite of himself.

They swim to the island three hundred feet away. Touch the rock. Execute a racing turn. Swim back.

They chill on the beach. Isabella stretches out on the beach towel as if she is making herself available to be admired. Inclines her head prettily. She catches James checking her out.

Teasingly, "Checking out your old aunt, huh?"

She is expecting a chuckle, so he supplies one.

After twenty minutes, they climb back up to the garden. She ahead of him. A distinctive curve to each buttock. Each separately defined and sculpted in its own right, with its own expressed sensual identity. Oh, those marching orbs! Clench, release, clench, release. There is something in the way she moves. He wishes that this climb winds on forever.

***

They are at the outdoor showers. Isabella under one shower head, James the other. James tries to face away from his aunt to give her a little privacy.

Isabel flushes the sand grains off her body and swimsuit. She writhes her body this way and that so that the shower water can get at all her parts. A kind of bossa nova. She is living testimony to the joys of being Latin.

She slides her fingers underneath the edge of the elastic at her waist. She pauses a moment like she is deliberating something. She pushes her swimsuit down.

James can't help but steal surreptitious peeks at his aunt. He sees the beginnings of the pencil shading of cleft between her buttocks. She slips the suit farther, rolling it up like a roller-blind, over her hips, past her thighs. She bends down to push it past her knees. The swimsuit falls freely to the floor.

With her back still to him, she glances over her shoulder.

In a teasing tone, "What does it feel like to look at your...?"

James does not say anything.

In an aunty tone, "Go on. Take a proper shower. Lose the sand."

He supposes he has no choice. He has to man up. But, what if he sports a flourish? Well, he can turn away.

A wrinkle or two, here and there. Just slight ones. But her body otherwise is toned and healthy. There is the long slenderness of her. The long neck. Long slim fingers. Smooth shoulders. Unblemished back. A distinctive curve to her buttocks. Not a young girl's, but a woman's tail, longish and curving. The recess between, in and of itself, is bewitching enough.

He doesn't know why but he suddenly thinks of his mum. Things gone unnoticed by him until now. Of course, he also has never before seen her without any clothes on. Never wanted to, as best he can remember.

This woman, his aunt, an uncanny replica of his mother, whom he professes to know so well, has in an instant become a mystery to him. This can't be the same mother who helped with his school projects. Who chauffeured him and his mates to concerts before he learned to drive. The one whose dark and disappointing eyes saw the red "F" on his report card for math. That look alone prompted a course correction for him. His grades improved. Rapidly, dramatically.

No, he is not looking at that woman. Someone else is standing exquisitely naked, her back to him, in this shower, here and now.

You stand in front of a mirror. The mirror is a reflection of you. But, can it be that you're the reflection of the mirror?

She turns. Faces him. She is almost as tall as he is. Her narrow face. Narrow nose. Large tawny wide-set eyes. But calm. Almost sleepy in their gaze. Skin virgin white.

Fingers spread gently across and around her breasts, slowly brushing away the sand and water. Her breasts are not large. Neither is she. Sagging a little from their weight. He thinks they are heavier than they look. He can't know for sure, though he would love to determine that for himself at first hand. For an instant, he thinks he sees her massage each large nipple with her thumbs. Maybe not.

He tries to figure out the relationship between her breasts and his feelings. Do the breasts appeal to him directly? Or, something else in her appeals to him through her breasts? The good questions, they rarely have straight answers.

How many words are there for 'breast', not counting crass slang words like tit and boob. The Eskimos have fifty-three words for 'snow', whereas he has a paltry one. Maybe two more. Sleet, hail. But not so many more. Strange moment to be thinking about linguistics. But, then again, he is a writer.

A soft rise of tummy. A pencil-shading shadow at the base of her belly. Vaguely visible in the shower mist. She is watching him watching her, so he can't stare down at it.

Whether it is the thought of being naked with his aunt, or just being naked with another person in an open shower, he doesn't know. He feels the blood rushing in as never before. He pretends not to notice. Of all times, why does this have to happen to him now?

As she rinses more sand from her thick hair, her eyes lower, fastening on him. She makes no pretence. She is watching him as she washes her arms. Her eyes moving slowly on him. Watching its movements in the shower spray. A beautiful sight in and of itself, which makes her feel responsible. As if she is aiding and abetting this sordid perfection.

He knows she is taking his measure with her eyes.

"Mmm...," is her appraisal.

An uneasy silence settles in. Only the crash of the surf pounding the cliff face. And the hiss of the shower spray raining down, bouncing off their bodies, plopping on the floor into puddles.

"My shower water pressure is a bit low. Can I turn off mine, and share your shower, so that all the pressure is directed to one shower?"

"Sure"

He draws away to give her room beneath the shower. She pulls him closer to her, then backs up a little to give him room.

Leaning in toward him a little, she dips her head under the falling water, as he brushes sand off his chest and stomach.

It does not escape his attention that, with her now close enough, that they are almost touching. Once again, she is taking note of his flourish. Her eyes lower, looking toward the floor, to see better. She watches him touch himself once, then twice to get sand off. Watches him massage the sand out of himself. Is this what he is really doing?

He is trying to hold on. He thinks he can manage the tension.

They rinse their suits off quickly, getting the remnant sand out of the fabric.

They put their swimsuits on awkwardly in front of each other. She lifts her right leg, then left, to step into her swimsuit.

His first proper look at her without the distraction of the shower spray. Black. Not much of it. Sleek and tidy. He likes it that it is natural. Every rip curl of wisp. Twins. This twin genetic thing, just how far does the symmetry go? In the mirror of twins, he sees the reflection of his own duality.

She is aware that he is looking. They are dressed now. She starts to walk back to the cottage. Then stops. Looks him in the eyes, "I won't tell if you won't tell."

"Mum's the word."

***

That evening.

James is reading on the sofa in the lounge. The lounge opens up to the patio, and beyond, the garden, to the cliff edge.

Isabella emerges from the garden. She steps into the patio. She has apparently just taken another shower. She loves the sensation of showering outdoors, relishing the caress of the wind, overlooking the ocean.

Towelling her hair. She is already in her bra and panty. She finishes up as she enters the lounge.

He can see a few black strays showing at the sides. He resists the urge to stare at the thatch visible through the fabric. She notices him enamoured of this detail.

"Hi James!"

A little sheepishly, "Hi"

She considers for a moment, "I'm not sure why I'm wearing clothes. We've already seen each other native. I usually go native at home. Shall we?"

He shrugs.

"Are you OK seeing me? It's kind of primal and nice to be that way, and this lovely place is so suitable for it."

He shrugs again.

"I hope it's not awkward for you because it's effectively seeing your mum nude?"

He really doesn't how to respond to that. The question gives him a strange tingle. His aunt is volunteering his mother's nudity. Not something fifty-five year old aunts routinely do. He has to wrap his head around that.

She considers his silence as tacit approval. After all, it's not like he is a teen.

She slides her panty down her legs. He notices the curls framing her femininity.

Then, she reaches back and unclasps her bra. Her breasts fall free in the way that puppies are let out. Her nipples thick. Quite dark. He thinks of prettily crafted cognac infused Belgian chocolates. Guilty pleasures. Darker than he remembers them from the earlier vision. Maybe it is the evening light. Her areolas are light brown. The actual skin of her breasts is pale. Like the rest of her virginal white complexion. The colour of fresh cream with hints of the fine aqua veins below the surface.

She gets on the sofa. Sidles over to him, while he is still reading.

"It's only fair. I want to see you."

"You do look nice. And healthy."

"What are you reading on your e-reader?"

"Tender Is The Night."

"Fitzgerald?"

"Yes, the classic. It came after The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald's life was in a whirl when he wrote it."

She looks at him, "It's been so very long since I did tender is the night."

***

Chapter 8

Day 3

Evening. The cliff edge.

Another glorious cinematic sunset. One that could well have been rented from Universal Pictures.

They are listening to Brahms' Second Piano Concerto on the media player. There is something just so wonderful about Brahms playing at the edge of an ocean without a sign of anyone as far as the eye can see. Brahms is performing just for them. And the ocean.

Now, the cello passage that begins the third movement. She sees James listening intently, sucking the music right out of the player.

"What does music mean to you?"

"I imagine this."