Chapter Fifteen

The song tasted like a long, lost lover.

She’d heard it only once before in her life, while walking down the streets of Ipanema. It was strange to go walking all alone in a country made for two, but Walter couldn’t be bothered to come with her. Business and all, so she’d made the decision to come on her own. She walked out of her hotel room like a typical tourist, clad in beach wear and thong sandals, ready to go on a romantic, moonlit stroll; even without a lover in arm. It was then that she first heard the song. Tall and thin and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking.

A small performing group along the streets played it, complete with maracas and marimbas. The woman’s singing voice washed over her like a long sip of long island iced tea, served with the costmary a lemon wedge. It seemed almost cliché to hear such a song along the very streets that inspired it. More cliché that she seemed to be acting on the same words that inspired it. If only Walter could have walked with her, then it would seem less of a cliché. At least she wouldn’t be like the girl in the song. She wouldn’t be walking alone.

“This song is so sad.” She whispered to her his ear as she lay her head on the crook of his neck. “I never really liked sad songs.” Ever since she was a little girl, songs like Ring Around the Rosie and Ladybug, Ladybug made her so sad. Her mother sang them as lullabies, but they would send her to tears and not to sleep. Ashes, ashes. You’re house is on fire and your children will burn. Why were they sung to make children sleep? How could a child sleep knowing that someone’s babies had burned in a fire. And now, as a twenty seven year old woman, she still disliked sad songs. When she passes he smiles, but she doesn’t see. It felt like a knife through her heart.

He spun her out and caught her back again. He smiled. “But you like this one.” An observation, not a question.

She did. She liked this song very much. She wanted to dance to it on her wedding day. “But do you like it?” She asked him as he dipped her.

“I have a soft spot for sad songs.”

He seemed like the kind. Tall, and quiet, he seemed like the kind of man who would like listening to sad songs. Who would like to dance to sad songs. Who would kiss a girl and make her blush to a sad song. As he led her across the dance floor, twirling and swaying her to the Brazilian beat of Ipanema, she felt as if he was the kind of man who would fit in well in a song like this. If he were the man in the song, maybe, the girl would have smiled right back at him. She knew she would.

She mouthed the words as they played. For someone who disliked sad songs, she knew this one well. But she had a knack for memorizing songs. She only needed to hear it once or twice to memorize the full chorus. Perhaps four times to memorize the verses. But she’d only heard this song once. Once in the streets of Ipanema, with the Long Island iced tea singer and the cliché marimba. Once while walking alone, with the moonlight bouncing off the cobblestone avenue.

“What movie was this song from?” he asked her. “I feel like that was where I first heard it from. A movie.”

“Sabrina.”

“I thought it wasn’t an old song?”

“The other one. Not Hepburn.”

He nodded and didn’t talk after that. Maybe he didn’t remember the movie very well. Maybe he didn’t like it that well. But she remembered the movie. She liked it very much. Even though it was Harrison Ford instead of Humphrey Bogart. Even if it was Julia Ormond instead of Audrey Hepburn. She still liked the movie. It too was sad. Filled with rain and champagne glasses. With stolen glances and unspoken words. Honey whispers on each ear. A kiss on the cheek instead of the lips.

Like a long, lost lover. Maybe that was where the song got its familiar flavor.

“I liked that movie.” He said.

“So did I.”

The song ended and he stopped. He stopped the CD before it could play another song. She was left in the dance floor, by herself. Him, across the room.

“So. Do you think this is the song?” he smiled. He did not smile well. He seemed like the type. It was still endearing.

“I think so. You?” she did not smile all that well either. She lacked the practice. It made them quite a match, really.

He nodded. The song was perfect. They’d danced to it.

Back in Ipanema, she walked alone and saw to strangers dancing to the song. Slowly. Not at all with the beat. They had their head in each other’s shoulder. Whispering in deep, intimate voices. Honey voices. Thick and saccharine. Almost sinful. Almost.

“What time do you have to leave?”

She laughed. “Now. You?”

“Now.” He didn’t laugh.

She walked away from the dance floor and picked up her bag. The car would already be outside. She’d have to make up an excuse. But she was good at that. Practice made perfect. He was getting his things too. They wouldn’t leave anything of theirs behind.

“Maybe we can meet again, Tuesday?”

“Tuesday would be perfect.”

“See you then.”

He went out through the verandah entrance. She went out through the front door. She was right. The car was already there. Walter was waiting inside. He was waving to her. She waved back and got in a car.

He kissed her lips, a kiss like snowfall