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Rainey froze. Time seemed to stop and all she could do was stare. It was always like that, the way her heart seemed to beat double-time and her palms began to sweat a little whenever he was around. Aidan Murphy. She thought his name, her mind caressing each syllable the way she longed to stroke the strong set of his stubbly jaw, his full lips, the strands of his dark hair. He was a freelancer who did work for the magazine every once in a while and Rainey thanked God for every chance she had to watch him when he came to the building to speak with Lyn or discuss a spread with Jasmine, the head photographer. Rainey had first seen him during her third week at the magazine. Completely engrossed in a story she was line editing at the time, she hadn’t heard him come in. That day, it was his laugh that made her look up, and when she did she watched him casually flirt with Jasmine and the way she, who always seemed a little distant and aloof, smiled up at him with an almost predatory glint. We provided them with one of our large books of lyrics, which was now two volumes, each 200 pages of sheet music.After playing a few pieces of music to hear the oboe and French blend, Nevina was correct with how they helped ‘complete our sound.’ Next was... MICHAELRoundlike a circle in a spiral,like a wheel within a wheelNever ending or beginningon an ever-spinning reelLike a snowball down a mountain,or a carnival balloonAPRILLike a carousel that’s turningrunning rings around the moonLike a clock whose hands aresweeping past the minutes of its faceAnd the world is like an applewhirling silently in spaceLike the circles that you findin the windmills of your mind!Our full orchestra sounded fantastique!BOTHLike a tunnel that you followto a tunnel of its ownDown a hollow to a cavernwhere the sun has never shoneLike a door that keepsrevolving in a half-forgotten dreamOr the ripples from a pebblesomeone tosses in a streamLike a clock whose hands aresweeping past the minutes of its faceAnd.
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