Free Eighty Days Red by Vina Jackson

between his breastbone. His nipples, small and dark. The small fold of flesh that had appeared on his stomach when he sat down, a result of the unflattering position we were both folded into. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to run my hand over the softness of his skin.
‘There you go,’ he added, before pulling the shirt back on again, ignoring the faint coffee stain that now marked the fabric.
His eyes ran over my body, then alighted on my violin case, leaning against the beanbag. ‘Are you a new member of the band?’ he asked.
‘No, I used to play with them occasionally, jam, but I’m more of a classical music performer these days.’
‘Show us then, I like to see an instrument.’
‘The violin? Sure.’
I leaned down, unbuckled the Bailly from its case and handed it to him.
He ran his hands over the body of the violin, gently caressing the burnished wood.
‘Do you play?’ I asked, curious at his reaction. His eyes, previously so flirtatious and focused on me were now entirely fixated on my instrument.
‘Not the violin, no,’ he replied, without lifting his gaze. ‘Though, believe it or not, I was classically trained in piano. Where did you get it? It’s a particularly beautiful instrument.’
I blushed, remembering Dominik, and the unwritten contract that I’d entered with him in order to keep the Bailly.
‘A friend gave it to me,’ I said.
‘Really?’ he responded, catching my gaze now. ‘Must be a close friend. Do you know where he got it from?’
‘You’re presuming my friend is a “he”.’
‘Yes I am. Where did he get it from?’
‘I’m not completely sure, to be honest. A dealer, I think. It came with a certificate. The last owner was called Edwina. Edwina Christiansen. But I don’t know anything about her. I did Google her once, but no luck. Are you a collector? Or in the market for something new?’
‘No, no. Just curious. I like pretty things.’ He handed the Bailly back to me, letting his fingers linger against mine as he did so.
‘Why don’t you play it for me?’ he asked.
‘Now?’
Chris was just coming into the final chords of the last song the group had on their set. ‘Yeah. Play for me.’
Naturally, I could have declined his request, as I’d brought the violin along in the hope that I’d get a chance to play a song or two with Chris and the band. But Viggo was essentially sponsoring Groucho Nights. I wanted to stay on his good side for their sake.
Viggo stood up and applauded heartily as Chris and the band reached the end of their last song.
‘Good shit,’ he said. ‘Now, I want to hear the violin. One more piece?’
Chris was sweating with the exertions of his set, but smiling broadly.
‘Yeah, course, come play, Sum.’
I picked up my violin and stepped alongside him.
‘Just improvise,’ he said, bursting into one of the folk tunes that we used to play together. Ella abandoned her drums so she wouldn’t drown me out and waved a pair of maracas about instead. It wasn’t my best performance, but the rhythm came back to me as though I’d played it yesterday.
Initially I felt a little self-conscious playing for Viggo, particularly as the rock numbers were outside my normal repertoire, but within a few minutes I had forgotten he was there entirely, I was so lost in the rhythm of the music.
It wasn’t until I opened my eyes at the end that I noticed his gaze was fixed firmly on me as I played, but rather than undressing me with his eyes as Dominik had, his focus was entirely on my violin, almost as if he were admiring me in the way that he would admire a piece of art. The difference between the two men, and their gaze as they watched me play, lingered in my mind as we returned to the flat.
Chris was jubilant, and didn’t seem to notice that I was distracted.
‘I want to do that every day for the rest of my life,’ he said with a flushed face as we piled into a taxi. ‘Especially if you’re around to pay for us to get cabs everywhere.’
I’d got used to