Hey, Little Songbird

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on empty

Play the song. Really.

• • •

Adrian headed home. He took his tie off as he walked through the door with a sigh.

"I'm home, Ophelia," he said quietly. She come from the back, silk kimono on her skin, hair up, soft smile.

"I'm home," he whispered.

She smiled.

"You look like you had a rough day," she murmured, walking toward him.

"Like you wouldn't believe," he sighed. He opened his mouth to tell her. About everything. He closed it. "You know your poet still comes around here, looking for you."

She stepped into the shadowed room gently.

"Oh? You should tell him there's nothing left for him here."

"I did. He won't believe me. He's on the radio, y'know," his lips quirked up.

She shrugged. He looked down, her bare feet against his wood floors. Her toes were painted white.

He looked up at her. Licking his lips.

"And you? I know you were feeling unwell today," he mentioned.

She shrugged. "I missed you so much...I couldn't even hear my own voice."

His breath caught, heart beating fast. She was a vision. Into what? Not this world? Somewhere else.

She looked so soft in the light.

"I fixed dinner for you. You sounded so stressed over the phone." She stopped in front of him.

She smelled like lemon grass and sleep. Like peaches. Like love.

"I...I..."

She palmed his face. "I've never heard you sound so down. What happened? Who hurt you?"

He looked away. "You told me, you were going to explain why you loved me. Tell me isn't just because I'm pretty."

Her lips quirked up. "I did, didn't I? Don't you want dinner first—?"

He grabbed her hand, keeping it on his face. "No. I need to hear it. I need to hear that's it something else. Please."

She frowned. "Come here." She took his hand, walking him to the couch. She sat down, patting her lap. He collapsed on the chair, laying his head in her lap.

"You're so smart. Kind. Sweet. Understanding. Encouraging. You're so by the book, but...you're also so sweet and shy. I think you're pretty, yes. I think you're beautiful, but more than your face, and your hair and your body...is your heart. And your mind. Your soul."

He smiled, closing his eyes.  "My own father only loved me...because of how I looked."

She combed through his hair.

"Most off all, Adrian. I love you, because...I can't help it. I love you. Something in me is compelled to adore you."

He opened his eyes, lifting up, grabbing her face. He pulled her lips to his, a tear tracking on his face.

"Ophelia..." he whispered. "I don't want to eat dinner right now," he unbuttoned his shirt.

She smiled, pulling him into her arms. Her hands rested on his back as he kissed her until all the things he was reminded of went away.

Like magic. Like her. She was a vision.

Her hands on him, skin against skin.

A vision into something better.

A vision into love. Something he knew existed but never understood or received. But her love was real.

He could touch it. His finger tips against her skin, her lips on his. That's what love felt like. Soft and warm, and electric.

Soft breaths and her breathy moans, silk kimonos on the floor.

Like music. The same notes, rearranging themselves in endless beautiful combinations.

On his own he couldn't hear them. Couldn't find the melody. Only when she sang, his songbird. Only when it was her songs, could he hear the truth.

Only her voice.

"Ophelia," he whispered in her ear, "I love you."

And he knew that he meant it.

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