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"You'd be surprised." I accept the glass of wine the waiter delivers, taking a small sip before continuing. "Repetitive stress injuries are common. Hours of holding the same position, day after day."

"Yet you choose to aggravate it further by getting dragged behind thousand-pound animals."

"Everyone needs balance in their life," I reply with a shrug that I immediately regret as pain twinges through the joint.

"You’re with PacWest Symphony, right? Jane mentioned you've been with them for a few years now."

I nod, surprised and somewhat pleased that he knows this detail about my life. "Five years. It’s not quite as prestigious as Seattle Symphony, but it's a solid regional orchestra."

"I've heard good things," Charlie says, though I suspect he's being polite.

"We have our moments." I take another sip of wine, its crispness bright on my tongue. “We've had budget cuts three years in a row now. Lost some of our best players to more secure positions. It's hard to carry on when everyone's worried about paying their bills."

A look of empathy crosses his face. "That must be difficult for you.”

The waiter returns to take our order and we tell him we’re still waiting for one more person.

"So, is it just funding, or are there other things going on?" Charlie continues.

I consider deflecting—my professional struggles aren't exactly dinner conversation—but his interest seems sincere. "It'scomplicated. Funding is the obvious issue, but it's more than that. Classical music is fighting for relevance in a changing cultural landscape. We're trying to innovate without alienating our core audience, who tend to be..."

"Old?" Charlie supplies.

"Traditional," I correct diplomatically. "They want their Beethoven and Brahms, not experimental compositions. But those traditional concerts don't attract new audiences, and without new audiences..." I trail off, the cycle all too familiar.

"You lose funding, which makes innovation harder, which keeps audiences static, which impacts funding further." Charlie completes the thought with surprising insight.

"Exactly. It's a slow decline rather than a dramatic collapse, which almost makes it worse. We can see it coming but can't seem to change course."

"So what's your dream scenario? If funding weren't an issue?"

The question catches me off guard. "Honestly?"

He nods, waiting.

"Seattle Symphony," I admit. "It's been my goal since I moved back to Seattle. Their artistic standards, their stability, their innovation—they're doing everything PacWest struggles with, and doing it brilliantly."

"Have you auditioned?" Charlie asks.

I shake my head. "Cello positions rarely open up, and when they do, the competition is intense. International-level players usually land the positions.”

"You'll get there," Charlie says with that same unwavering confidence he showed about my riding.

The vote of confidence warms me. "I hope so."

His gaze holds mine for a moment too long, and I find myself looking away first, reaching for my wine glass.

"Jane’s super late," I say, glancing toward the entrance.

Charlie checks his phone. "She just texted. She’s stuck at the showgrounds dealing with a trailer tire issue. She says to start without her."

I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or pleased.

We order and our food arrives quickly. Salmon for me and a big, juicy sirloin for Charlie. Our conversation shifts to lighter topics—Charlie's latest coffee sourcing trip to Colombia, my adventures with finding the perfect saddle for Oliver, mutual acquaintances from Seattle's overlapping social circles.

It's surprisingly easy, talking with him. The Charlie I remember from our younger days was distant, moving in different circles than Jane and me. This adult version seems genuinely interested in my thoughts, asking follow-up questions and listening intently to my answers.

"So both your passions involve temperamental partners," Charlie observes as we finish our food. "Horses and cellos."