Page 6 of A Wistful Symphony

I could’ve bitten my tongue as soon as the words came out. I didn’t intend to seem bitter, but your moue states clearly how it sounded.

I hasten to fix it. “For the best, I mean. You seem well, healthy, got a nice job teaching kids. And that bloke, Danny. You fit well together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you two …?”

“No.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Danny is my friend. And my NA sponsor.”

“Oh!” My cheeks heat. “It’s just—you guys seemed very—”

“He’s just chummy like that. Sometimes a bit too much.” Your brows furrow in mild annoyance. “And we go way back.” You throw me an amused grin. “He’s straight, though.”

“I see,” I murmur, too embarrassed to add anything else.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Looking sharp, fancy job at a studio, guys should be all over you.”

That makes me laugh out loud. “Oh please! As if.”

“Why not?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s a lot of work being in a relationship.” I purse my lips, not believing you’d make me say it out loud. “My job demands most of my time and guys don’t usually bother adjusting to my … lifestyle.”

Especially when I overthink every phrase and action. When I constantly need reassurance because of my spiralling mind. When I drive them crazy with my weird compulsions. When I often get turned off by having intrusive thoughts of contamination in the middle of sex.

No. Guys don’t bother adjusting to that.

“Shame. Their loss, though,” you say with a tiny shrug. “Then tell me about this job of yours.”

My face lightens with the change of subject. I tell all about how Ms Thorne became my mentor and made me her right hand at the studio. The BBC job and how I aced the interview, even though the producer was out to get me. My recent struggles with the theme and all the nuances I’ve put into it.

You listen without muttering a sound, a placid smile resting on your lips. You’ve always given me full attention when we talked, even when I blabbered on. I suspect you liked it. An excuse for you to remain quiet and observant, as it always suited you.

“So, how’s the theme going?” you say when I finally give you the opportunity.

“Finished it yesterday and turned it in for review.” I pause, uncertain if I should ask the next question. “You want to hear it?”

“Of course.”

The immediacy of your response makes me exhale, relieved.

I search my phone for the tune and place it on the table as you pick earbuds from your pocket, sync them, and press play.

You hold a pensive expression, gaze lost somewhere beyond my shoulders.

There’s no reaction from you except for a gentle tapping on the wooden surface.

The wait is killing me. My heart races and my stomach churns for the whole three minutes and twelve seconds of the song, until you finally press stop and remove the buds.

“You’ve improved so much,” you say, smiling wide. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.” I mirror your grin. My music is the one thing I’m not bashful about.

“The phrasings are delicate, and they give such a wistful colouring to the song. I can definitely picture the misadventures of the Dashwood sisters with it. Can’t wait to hear it with the whole arrangement.”

“It’s good, but needs some extra work. Any ideas?” I tease.

“For violin?” You raise your brows. “One or two, but I bet you can do much better. That’s a muscle I haven’t exercised for a long time.”

Oh, but you have, Andrew. The playing part, at least. I see it in the calluses on your left hand digits, in your clothes sprinkled with rosin dust. I can spot a working violinist a mile away.

“You should. I remember how you enjoyed coming up with your take on classics.” I lean on the table. “Did you ever show Mr Hennessey that version you made of The Four Seasons ?”

“Never.” Your eyes widen in amusement. “He would call me a heathen for tampering with Vivaldi.”

“True,” I chuckle. “Imagine if he knew the type of music I was composing back then.”

“He’d frown the heck out of that unibrow and ask you why you were wasting your time, young man, because—”

“ Pop music is where musicians go to die,” we say in unison and burst out laughing.

“That seems like a lifetime ago.” Sweet remains of laughter linger on your voice. “I’m glad I’m not bull-headed like that with my students.”

“How did that happen, actually? Of all the jobs I can imagine, you being a teacher would not be my first choice.”

“Danny recommended me.” You eat the last bite of your lemon pie and carry on. “He’s a social worker and has been helping at the orphanage for years now. They needed someone who could show the kids how to concentrate and develop cognitive and fine motor skills, so he thought of music. And me.”

“Quite a break.” I smile gently.

“Not so much. It’s mostly volunteer work.” You dismiss it with a wave of hand, but there it is again, the unmistakable glimmer in your eyes. “I still have to hunt for gigs to pay the bills.”

“Are you? Managing the bills, I mean.”

“So far.”

“You’re doing something you like and getting the bills done. Sounds like a break to me.”

“Yeah. Suppose you’re right.” You relax, letting the faint gleam overtake your face and rest fully on your lips. You look so beautiful when you allow yourself to be happy.

“I think I’ll get a refill. You want something else?” I announce briskly, noticing I’ve been staring far too long.

I order a cup of Earl Gray, you ask for tap water, and we go on chatting about the commonness of our daily lives.

I update you on how my family is doing, Delia and Zoe living in London, my mother and the rest of the Lowell clan still living peaceful, predictable lives in our hometown.

You share what came of your old friend Astro, and bits of your life in London with Danny and your other co-workers.

We jump from subject to subject, present and past mingling together in a constant thread. The more we talk, the more I settle on the resolution that I will not bring up our last days. What’s the point? Would it make it hurt less? Would it change anything? I don’t believe so.

I let myself relish your company, realising how much I missed the effortlessness of our conversations. Neither of us does a thing to end it. Not until the server comes back and informs us the cafe is closing.

“Gosh, I hadn’t realised how late it is.”

“Me neither. Time flies when we’re catching up.” You look down, running a hand through your hair until it rests on your nape. “I should probably get going, though.”

“Me too. I’ll surely be up to my neck in revisions after the feedback from my boss.”

The addendum makes you chuckle.

I could say goodbye. Get up, walk out the double-glazed doors of this cafe and never see you again.

I would go back to Southeast London, continue to work on my dream career, and eventually find someone I felt comfortable enough with to have a healthy long-term relationship.

And I would be perfectly fine like that.

But the truth is, Andrew, I don’t want to. Not yet.

“It was good talking to you. We should do it again sometime.”

You give me the tiniest squint while the corners of your lips raise slowly, as if you were waiting for me to say those words. “Yes. We definitely should.”