Page 4 of A Wistful Symphony
Reminiscence Overture
T he beginning of a new project is always my favourite part.
Since there’s no need to be at the studio for the creative process, Ms Thorne gives me permission to work from home as long as I brief her regularly.
The days spent in the peaceful solitude of my flat, pouring music from my fingers until a new song is born … those are heaven.
I put a cup of coffee on the coaster upon the piano and gaze through the window.
The breaking dawn slowly casts its rays inside the sitting room, although it’s still fairly dark outside.
It poured last night, and stubborn droplets still plummet against the window glass.
I’m glad their pitch is high enough for me to detect with my hearing aids.
The day starts with a blissful variation, marking its tempo with the uneven snaps of rain. The melody is not premeditated. I let go of anything I’m feeling and turn it into music, to stretch both my fingers and creativity. I call it the ‘first song.’
Unlike my usual work, the first song is deprived of any sense of technique or aesthetic.
It’s room to breathe. Somewhere I can clear my head of anything troubling me before the proper work begins.
Sometimes my first song is hectic, sometimes it’s plain dreadful, and sometimes it’s beautiful.
I never take notes. The first song is just for me.
Today, however, my first song sounds an awful lot like you.
I stare at the cold ivory keys, pondering the irony of us meeting again at such an important time in my career, and decide not to let the past repeat itself.
It took me years to make plans for a future that didn’t include you or didn’t make me wonder ‘what if?’ I have a good life, Andrew, one I fought hard for.
I won’t let our tragic unresolved … whatever that was … tarnish my chance. Not again.
Perhaps it’s for the best you haven’t texted yet.
The phone is left on the nightstand, behind closed doors.
Today is about work and work alone. I drown myself in music, experimenting with themes and comparing them with my notes.
Hours pass. Light fills the room and fades as I fuel myself with a healthy diet of tea and scones.
By the end of the day, I have an idea I can work with and manage to do so without checking my phone for messages.
The next day isn’t as successful. Although I progress on schedule, between every row of practice on the piano, every new line of composition, every arrangement, I check for a missed call, a text, a comment or like on my social media.
But aside from check-ins with Ms Thorne or scattered messages from my best friend and my mum, there’s nothing.
By Friday, I’m already kicking myself for being such a moron and giving you my card instead of getting your contact. The spiral of anxiety I’ve put myself in is near torture. Deliberately hanging on a thread of foolish expectations until I realise you want nothing to do with me. Again.
I mean, why would you even text me? You’re the one who left in the first place, making it crystal clear you didn’t want me in your life, disappearing for a decade.
You have things together now, teaching music to kids, along with Danny and his tall, muscled physique, his wide smile, his easy-going personality. What use would you have for me?
You’re an utter idiot, Eric.
After a week of strenuous over-hours, pounding heart, troubled sleep, and the worst case of FOMO in years, I compose a polished theme song worthy of a grand network. And lose hope of hearing from you.
On Saturdays I have lunch with my baby sister in a place of her choice, part of her never-ending crusade of making me try new things.
Delia often pushes me to fatigue until she has her way with me.
Now that she lives in student lodging nearby, she always comes up with a trendy new place or an exotic cuisine to taste.
We toured Chinese, Turkish, Greek, Caribbean, and Thai restaurants, to mention a few, even one dingy Indian place in Camden that almost gave me a panic attack and to which I’ll never set foot in again. Delia loved it, of course.
This week she cut me some slack and took us to an Italian restaurant in Greenwich where I’m a regular. Maybe she could sense I’m stressed enough and in need of some comfort food. I’m glad she’s not entirely aware of the reason.
I sit at an outside table waiting for her—late as usual—and the server is kind enough to bring me a glass of water and a small basket of bread.
A thin wave of steam rises, carrying the freshly baked scent, and I’m not shy about digging in, spreading large amounts of butter as I observe the movement on the street.
Music comes to me every time I watch people passing by, as if each one carries their own personal soundtrack.
A leisurely little minuet would accompany the lady pushing a baby trolley; a sharp, grim fugue would render as the suited middle-aged bloke yelled at his phone; and a shady scherzo would follow the suspicious-looking punk in a hoodie.
I wonder what your song would be like, Andrew, if we ever met again.
Delia’s high-pitched voice disrupts my reverie, her heels a hasty staccato on the stony pavement.
“So sorry I’m late! I saw the cutest pair of heels on sale and just had to get them.
” She swings a red shopping bag in front of my face and sits down.
I hope it was quite a sale; that particular store is pricey.
“Can you even afford new shoes on a uni student budget?”
“There’s this thing called credit cards. I’m sure you’re familiar with them,” she says while the server brings us the menu.
“And you’re aware they don’t mean ‘unlimited source of money,’ right?”
“Jesus bloody Christ, I’m a big girl. I can keep track of my own finances, okay?
” She slams the menu shut and turns to the server.
“Caprese salad and sparkling water for me, and gnocchi al pesto with a glass of grape juice for him.” She glares at me again.
“You always browse the entire menu and order the same thing.”
“Fair enough.” I give in, too tired to argue.
She takes a small bite of a loaf. “You’re keeping some serious radio silence lately. You haven’t even replied to my messages.”
“I worked on the BBC theme all week,” I explain.
“Work? And here I was thinking you found some muscular jock to toy with.”
I snort. “Sorry. No jocks in my path for over a year.” My sister is fully aware that dating is not only a tender topic, but the least of my concerns. Music is what I’m good at. It’s given me much less heartache.
Nevertheless, she never tires of trying to change my mind. “A year?” Her enormous brown eyes bulge. “Oh, Eric, your love life is so sad. We need to step up your game. How is your Grindr profile?”
“Deactivated.” I take a sip of juice, not looking at her. “Guys who send dick pics in lieu of hello are not really my type.”
“You’re not on dating apps. You hate clubs. You barely get out of your flat. How do you expect to ever meet someone?”
I put my hands on the table and take a deep breath before answering. “I don’t. That’s my entire point. Despite what you claim, sex is not something I miss. And relationships are too complicated and time consuming now that I’m so close to getting the BBC job.”
Delia sighs, the annoying pout on her lips telling me she’s finally given up.
“Whatever.” She flutters her hand. “How’s the BBC job going, then?”
“Sent Ms Thorne the theme song demo last night, so now it’s a matter of waiting.”
“Exciting!” She perches her wide-angled chin on her knuckles. “Will this be the year my big brother wins an award? Mum would freak out if you got one, you know? She’s already going bonkers, telling half the town her boy is working for the BBC.”
I almost choke on a piece of bread. “What? Why the hell would she do that? We haven’t even signed a contract yet.”
“Oh, quit being dramatic, Eric,” Delia sneers before taking a sip of sparkling water. “She’s just happy for you. Let her. She ought to be proud of one of us, at least.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt her to be quietly proud.”
“Too late for that.” Delia laughs, light and breezy. She can’t grasp the amount of pressure that simple act puts on me.
She proceeds to narrate her week in vivid and overly explained detail.
The latest assignments for her business classes, her meaningless pet peeves about her friends, her boy crush of the week.
I carefully place ‘ohs’ and ‘hums’ to make it seem I’m listening to it all, but I’m too anxious about Ms Thorne’s response to pay attention.
Delia’s aware I didn’t catch half of it, but that never stops her.
She loves the sound of her own voice and long ago I realised it’s best to indulge her.
The server puts her salad and my lush plate of pasta in front of us and interrupts her blabbering.
“Ugh, I hate you,” Delia says. “How can you stay skinny eating nothing but carbs?”
“You got all the good genes. Let me have the high metabolism.” I slowly lift a forkful to my mouth and hum in pleasure.
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “What about Dad’s eyes?”
My playful expression sours, and I rest the fork on the side of the plate.
“Why did you have to mention him?” I mutter. Delia sighs but doesn’t say a word.
We continue eating in uncomfortable silence until my pocket buzzes. I rush for it, imagining it’s Ms Thorne demanding three dozen alterations to the BBC theme song, but no. Only a few notifications from an unknown number.
hey
sorry for taking so long to reach out. It’s been a busy week
I would’ve reached out the next day
only because it’s you
if it was anyone else, I’d probably take another week lol
anyways, are you free today? Wanna go for a coffee later?
just for you, but you get the idea