The Singing Butler

I live in a world of heartbreak… I just seem to be more creative when I’m in some kind of emotional distress.-Jack Vettriano

There Tracy and I stood in the gallery gazing at the original painting of The Singing Butler. We held hands. Because that made us feel closer. We smelled the salt in the air. We felt it on our skin, and in our hair. We could hear the sound of the surf in our ears. We saw the maid and the butler with the umbrellas, but we held none. We reveled in the rain. The sweet mist that covered our skin with the sea salt in the air. We saw the couple dancing, and their embrace. We couldn’t see her face, but we knew she was ravishing. For how could a man, a simple man in morning clothes want to dance with her on the beach, in the rain? His love for her must have been immeasurable.

So there Tracy and I stood. And felt what they felt. And knew the love that those two dancers knew. For we felt it ever day with the men that loved us. How we wished to be that ravishing, dark haired woman. But then, we already were.