a concert.
dinner first—so hungry i go right to the soup, which is my go-to. no dilly-dallying by the main meal line, hoping something looks good.
and then a salad, because i’m trying to lose weight.
and then a bagel because i’m still hungry. marielle looks at her watch.
it snowed last night, and then rained, so the long passage beneath the FAC overhang is sheeted with ice. inside the lobby is warm—too much. compensating.
we pay our three dollars each—it’s classical, so they’re charging less in hopes of attracting more. it’s a friday night—not likely.
the orchestra is a state of being, an illusion. each performer has no past and hardly any future, just a shuffling offstage once the conductor takes his last bow. everything is a present.
except you, a surprise in the third row, in front of the french horn players, next to the two bassoonists. i must confess i was looking for a familiar face. and there you are: a remnant of my pre-college years and also of last weekend, at the hockey rink. i can’t see your saxophone—the violins block it from view.
i wish i’d never noticed you. the illusion’s been spoiled. i know too much about you. i know too much about us.
as the conductor takes the podium, one of the bass players shift and one of the tuning pegs hits the lights.
the music seduces me, and you are only an instrumentalist.
the woman playing the harp has Princess Diana hair.
the walk home is all uphill.
