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The Bubble Test
She held him closely, tightly, and he could smell the faint
scent of her
perfume, if it was indeed that, he could feel the burning of
his cheek and was
unreservedly grateful that it was dark, and that they could only
see each other by the
silvery light of the moon, as he was sure that he was blushing
madly. He felt her skin
on his, and held himself in readiness for her next command.
'Just blow,' said Olivia.
David was perplexed. 'Are you sure?'
'If you're not interested...' There was a dangerous underlying
tone in her
voice.
'It isn't that at all,' said David. 'I'm very interested.
I just don't understand
the goal of the exercise, which makes it harder for me to judge
if I'm getting it right.'
Olivia laughed. 'That's the point, silly. This is one of those
things that we
won't know until we both try. So just do it, and stop asking
questions.'
David shook his head. His dark hair was ruffled, partly by
the wind, and
partly by her efforts with it a few short moments before, efforts
which had not been
unwelcome. But now, things seemed to have taken a turn for the
grimly serious, and
he wasn't at all certain how to react. In instances like that,
there were only two things
to fall back on; training, and life experience. Both told him
the same thing.
He did as he was told, and blew, gently, through lips pursed,
as though to kiss,
as they had kissed Olivia's lips only a few short moments before.
And, as he blew,
soundlessly, it happened.
Into the cool night air soared the perfect shape of the soap
bubble. Against the
light of the waxing moon, it was like a second, translucent satellite,
erratically
following the movement of its more sedate twin, rising rapidly
into the cooling night
air. Physics, which had been looking the other way in the event
that this moment had
suddenly become one of beautiful and delicate intimacy, happened
to glance back and
saw what going on, and the bubble was quickly nudged out of existence.
It did not
matter, however, as compatriots soared into the air to follow,
wafting across the
empty park grounds, into silvery copses of trees and through
barrier hedges, along
paths untrodden and into moonlit rosegardens, when fountains
dribbled and gurgled
their melodies. One at a time, he blew and redipped the wand
into the tiny plastic
bottle, then blew again. After a long slow trail of respectably
large individual efforts,
he began to be caught up in the moment. A long steady steam of
small bubbles
followed several of the larger ones into the nearly still night
air. Then he began
altering the pattern, finding that he was laughing to himself
at the simple enjoyment to
be had from a little soapy water and a plastic wand. The patterns
grew elabourate as
they were ephemeral, until at last he remembered himself, and
realised that she was
standing, watching him, silently, her face unreadable. Her skin
was as pale as
alabaster, her red hair dark and glinting only the faintest of
ruby colour as she
watched him. Her eyes were amused, though. A good sign, he felt.
He fell back on courtesy. 'I'm sorry,' he said, offering her
the bottle and
wand, now slightly and inevitably slick to the touch. 'Would
you like a go?'
Olivia smiled. 'I'd love to.'
* * * * *
It was like living a scene out of a slightly more frolicsome
version of
Shakespeare's play, where the faeries were soap bubbles and a
mischievous Robin
Goodfellow hid behind every tree. In the moonlight, they laughed
and danced and ran
like children, until finally they collapses together by an old
stone wall, somewhere
behind which a fountain gurgled and splashed quietly to itself.
Her head was on his
shoulder, her hair cascading softly over his chest, which still
rose and fell with great
rapidity after their exertions.
'So,' he said at last, when they had both caught their breaths
and stopped
breaking into spontaneous fits of laughter. 'Explain it to me.'
She smiled, half to herself and half to him. 'I don't see
why I shouldn't.'
'The key to the exercise,' she began, 'is that it's a leap
of faith.'
'You tell someone that you want them to do something. You
don't give them
a word of explanation, you don't instruct them in any way. You
take them
somewhere, anywhere, as long as it's unexpected and comparatively
private, and then,
after a moment or two of priming to set the correct mood, you
hand them a child's
toy.'
'A small, pre-prepared bottle of soap bubbles, complete with
wand?'
'Exactly. And you see what happens. There are several possibilities.'
'Some men,' said Olivia, 'will laugh outright when you try
to get them to do
it. Some others will listen, and may even be willing to attempt
it, but you just know
that they're going to be hopeless at it. Those first two categories
you can just cast
aside without hesitation - they're never going to do you any
good, no matter how well
they do at anything else. There will be others too: those who
can't get the jar open,
those who can't blow gently enough to produce any bubbles, those
who want to clown
around and try to blow the bubbles up your skirt or down your
blouse. That can have
it's own attractions later, but, initially, it's not a part of
the test.
'But a very few, a very, very few, actually seem to concentrate
on the task,
with all the earnestness and attention in their character. They
do that solely because a
woman in whom they are definitely interested has asked them to
do so, but in that
request many other motivations are encompassed.
'And from those few who seem to concentrate really earnestly,
fewer still
produce that miracle result: instead of just bashing through,
and producing as many
bubbles as they can at the outset, they take their time, and
patiently try to craft single,
beautiful bubbles, each like a single work, crafted with as much
care and love as
seems possible and prudent. Perhaps, as they grow enamoured of
their creative skills,
they might let fly a stream of smaller, more random bubbles,
but they will always
return to that single effort at creation, because they have decided
to do each and every
thing in their lives with care and all of the skill that they
can muster.
'And it speaks to everything about them. Their heart. Their
evenness of
temper. Their dedication and devotion. Even, and don't you dare
laugh at this: even
their prowess and ability as a lover. Everything is told in those
few seconds of
ephemeral bliss. They devote themselves to something childish,
quotidian, and utterly
pointless, yet enjoyable. And that, in short, is the sort of
man that a woman would be
mad to pass up.' She looked up at him, and David couldn't help
thinking that she was
beautiful in the moonlight, in any light.
He hesitated to ask the question that was most on his lips,
but didn't see any
way around it. 'So: have I passed?'
'With flying colours.'
'And there is a reward, for passing this test?'
She laughed. 'The best reward that I can possibly offer.'
And it was.
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