Lucy and Logan in Lockdown

Logan was an artist; Lucy was a fashion designer.

This is important.

Look:

#

Logan and Lucy met at a party. It was hosted by the friend of a friend of a friend, by some people neither one of them knew; but they’d both made some tentative promise or other to somebody that they would go. Lucy was vibrant, her creativity bound up in her hair – a mix of ribbons, a woollen scarf, a few clips, a sock that had been embroidered and repurposed to hold some of her magnificent, voluminous hair in a bun. Logan’s creativity was more subtle, hiding beneath his skin; but he knew it was there, and so he recognised its kindred in this girl standing across the room, unmissable in a sequined dress tied with a fluffy, crinkly cord – pink-purple clashing boldly with a mix of deep red and ice-white.

Maybe he’d had a few drinks, because this wasn’t really at all like him: to walk up to Lucy and hold his hand out and an introduce himself.

“Lucy Farley,” she said in reply, taking the proffered hand.

“Ah, a firm handshake,” he quipped.

“Is that even really a thing?”

“My fingers hurt.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Is it presumptuous of me to want to arm wrestle with you? Is it a little bit weird?”

She laughed. That sort of thing came easy to her, she found the world generally funny. “I don’t mind a little weird. Do you promise not to let me win?”

“I promise.”

And he didn’t. And so, when they were done, surrounded by that audience they’d started attracting, she was only too happy to agree when he asked if she’d have dinner with him sometime, at the fanciest restaurant his budget would allow. The small crowd of strangers did the decent thing and gently applauded.

#

But Lucy and Logan lived in interesting times.

Just a few months after that first date, the world got scary. The virus was making inroads all over the world, and returning from their fifth date Logan turned on the radio to hear that the country was going into lockdown in just over twenty-four hours.

He called Lucy: “Have you heard?”

“Yes.”

“Is your mum going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I already can’t visit her. I guess that won’t be different.”

“I suppose you can work from home?”

“Yeah. You too.”

“I can’t sell anything, but I can keep painting.”

“How long do you think it’ll last?”

“Dunno.”

“But we’ll be okay.”

“Of course, we will.”

#

These were modern times; but let’s face it, even if they’d been living this out in the eighties they’d have still kept in touch, long phone calls instead of Skype and Discord and Zoom. They’d have still talked to each other regularly. Both: alone in their little bubbles of one, except that Logan still had to check on his Great Aunt Lula, bring her groceries, help her with the house and check on her meds – a small, regular adjunct to his solitary bubble. And it did get him out of the house. For Lucy, there was the weekly grocery shop, and besides that: she wasn’t bored, she had work to do, but the enforced isolation, the same set of walls, day in, day out, grated on her lively, gregarious nature. She felt cooped up.

“You can still walk,” Logan reminded her.

And as luck would have it, she actually lived only ten minutes’ walk from Logan – close enough to be considered ‘local’ if she walked there and then turned around and walked straight back. “Hm,” she said, “well, be at your window, six o’clock tonight.”

“Count on it.”

#

And so, she set out at ten to six, and walked down the road to Logan’s place. He was, as promised, standing in the big lounge window, waiting for her to walk past. She stood outside and waved to him, jumped up and down a few times, before going along her way. Logan thought to himself that she was so beautiful. Standing out there in a pair of jeans and loose, white shirt, with turquoise chunks around her neck, and her hair in the wind. After she’d walked on and home, he was still thinking about her, still picturing her as she’d stood there, with the falling sun against her back.

That was when he decided to get out his paintbrushes.

#

Seeing Logan like that had really lifted her mood. Lucy reflected that even separated by social distance and glass it had still been glorious to see him – better somehow than Skype, because they were closer to being together in the flesh. That was why she decided to make a nightly ritual of it – if she couldn’t touch him or kiss him, at least she could see him there at his window, without the filter of technology. There was just something about seeing the reality of it, knowing he was right there, at a measurable, physical distance.

“What do you think?” she asked Logan, not wanting to push the whole thing on him – they were still a new couple after all, and her friend Sophie was always warning her how skittish men were in this early stage – like wild horses, Sophie insisted, they’ll jump and run at the first idea of permanence or emotional intimacy.

Logan didn’t seem too skittish. “Totally,” he said. “We should totally do that.”

#

When she walked towards Logan’s place, she noticed that he seemed to be holding something quite large. She wondered what it was – maybe a sign, with a loving message on it – perhaps she should have done the same. But as she got closer, she saw that it wasn’t that. It was a portrait, and it was of her. Her as she’d been last night, in the same clothes, with the gold-traced clouds behind her, her hair all over the place. And – artist that he was – Logan had found a way to make that scene beautiful, to make her seem as she was some sort of suburban goddess.

He waved, and she waved back.

But she didn’t call him until she got home – using the phone to talk in those moments would have somehow cheapened things.

She said, “You painted that.”

“Yeah.”

“It must have taken you forever.”

“Most of the day.”

“You’re so talented.”

“I had such a great muse. She all-but painted it for me.”

“Aha.”

He started singing – or trying to sing, his creative talents didn’t really lean that way: “You’re the meaning in my life…. You’re the inspiration… You bring meaning-“

“Stop.”

“You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

“How would you know?”

“You sound like you’re blushing.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“You’re a great artist.”

“I had a great subject.”

#

Well, Lucy thought to herself, she wasn’t going to be outdone, but she had no talents as an artist, and no access to a canvas or some paintbrushes. But she did have those old curtains that’d come with the house seven years ago. She’d always kind of been thinking about doing something with them. Well, tonight was the night.

#

And she went on her walk the next day, it was a little harder going than usual. Her thick, curtain-skirts needed to be carried as she walked. Lucy caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective surface of a window, and she had to smile. The fancy, 18^th Century-style ball-dress she’d constructed out of those curtains was really quite pleasing to the eye. It’d taken her most of the night to sew it, but it’d come out well, it had all that yesteryear flair and flow, bunched around the hips, swirling around the bust. She wore glass-crystal beads around her neck in imitation of giant diamonds, and wore a similar string in her hair.

As she took her evening walk, she got a few stares from passersby, or from people in their homes and gardens. She did the only sensible thing, and just waved brightly in their direction. When she got to Logan’s place she twirled slowly for his appreciation. His jaw dropped.

He mouthed some words to her.

She held her hand up to her ear: I didn’t quite catch that.

He mouthed them again. They were “I love you.”

It was the first time he’d told her so; and he got the moment exactly right.

#

The next day she decided on a more nineteenth century approach. She had a couple of nighties she could take apart, and an old, 1970s coat that could be turned into a late 19^th century style jacket. She spent a lot of time on the hat, sculpting flowers out of silk, making leaves from some old crepe paper that had been partially used for Christmas streamers. A rolled-up t-shirt and some string constructed a serviceable bustle.

She got there to find a new portrait displayed in the window, her again, this time in her curtain dress.

And when she arrived the next day – dressed fairy-tale princess – she saw a portrait of herself as a 19th century lady.

And the next day – dressed in the style of ancient Rome – she saw a painting of herself as fantasy princess.

#

As they talked on the phone, she asked him, “How long do you think it’ll keep going?”

“Until there’s no new cases maybe. Do you think you have the wardrobe for it?”

“I’ll come up with something. If you have the paints.”

“My part’s easier, you come up with all the ideas. What’s it going to be tomorrow?”

“That would be something of a spoiler.”

“Just a hint.”

“I’m thinking medieval.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Did you mean that? What you said in the window?”

“About loving you? Oh, do I hear a blush?”

“No. No, you don’t. But did you?”

“Of course, I did.”

“Well, I think I love you too. It’s weird, isn’t it? Kinda sudden.”

“Well, if it’s meant to be then it’s meant to be.”

She could feel the heat on her cheeks. She would never admit it to him. She tried for a kind of cool neutrality, such as Sophie would have been proud of: “Maybe it is.”

“You know what?” he said, “When this is all over? Let’s dress up fancy and go out to a super-fancy restaurant somewhere and eat at least four courses. And then when we’re done let’s go back to my place and arm-wrestle.”

Lucy grinned, invisible across phone lines. “It’s a date,” she replied.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work