Unravelled

Her email had arrived a few days earlier, 'There is an interesting exhibition at the NGV. Want to join me? 'So what is this exhibition about?' he innocently asked as they stepped out of the cold afternoon into the warm embrace of the gallery.


'Love, Loss and Intimacy, you know three of life's necessities that you relinquished 40 years ago, she teased, flashing him her 'got you' smile.

The way the exhibition title had rolled off her tongue said it all. For chrissake it had happened again and he knew what this meant as he had seen that smile many times before. This woman, his dear friend, looked like a cat that had cornered the most delicious mouse, she was definitely ready to pounce and he was undoubtedly going to squirm. Over the years she had taken him on all manner of interesting and often downright challenging outings, usually with the sole purpose of coaxing him to reveal a little more of his tightly bound self. This time the exhibition would undoubtedly be her unravelling tool.

It wasn't that he disliked these moments, in fact he relished them. When they were together he allowed himself the pleasure of feeling for another person and in all honesty he treasured the warmth and love she had injected into his often lonely and routine existence.

Well I'm sure it will be enlightening given I apparently don't know anything about the subject matter! he retorted, his eyes gleaming with fondness.

She had to rely on these nuances in his behaviour to read his feelings as the expression of emotions had always been a 'no go zone' between them. Many times she had tried to break this barrier but his feelings had always remained firmly locked deep inside and she suspected that when she entered his life he was relieved he had thrown the key away years ago. What a strange friendship she mused, but then again maybe strange was the only kind of relationship a woman could have with a priest, especially the celibate variety.

'Snap! You win dear man, let's go in' she exclaimed.

They followed individual paths through the exhibition space, each drawn to different works, lingering at some and barely engaging with others.

Turning to find him she noticed he was transfixed by the Helleu portrait of Jean and his Mother. His face was framed by the pale gallery light, an escaping tear slowly etching a glistening path down his cheek. She felt something move deep within her being when she recognised that his face perfectly mirrored the juvenile Jean's fond gaze at his mother, Alice. Another fragile thread of her precious friend's life was tenderly unravelling in front of this portrait of love.

Softly slipping her arm into his she felt his body relax and years of abandoned intimacy begin to dissolve in the comfort of her touch.

'My mother's name was Alice' he whispered.

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Ghislaine