Page 65 of A Wistful Symphony

Epilogue

Serendipity Symphony

“ W ork, you goddamn piece of junk,” I whine as I jab the unresponsive power button of the coffee maker. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This can’t be happening again.”

“So dramatic.” You smother a laugh, coming to stand beside me at the kitchen counter. “Why don’t you grab some on the go? I bet the cafe near Hither Green station is open.”

“Oh, please, you know how big this is.” I playfully roll my eyes. “It’s my first meeting with the crew, Andrew. My first creative meeting for a real film score since I quit Bluebell Studios. Any regular coffee just won’t do.”

You shake your head and divert your eyes to the coffee maker. “Might be easier if you plug it in.” After you do, the power button instantly flashes red.

“Damn it, I forgot I unplugged it last night during the thunderstorm.” I start the machine, and the hum of filtering coffee blends with the distant song on the radio. “Lovely. I could kiss you.”

“Why don’t you?” A devilish grin takes your lips before you seal them on mine.

I hold you against my body and don’t rush, tasting the minty flavour of our toothpaste all over your tongue. You slide one sassy palm inside the back of my trousers, causing all kinds of tingles between my legs.

“Someone is getting horny,” you whisper, smiling against my lips.

“And someone is going to make me late,” I chuckle, carefully untangling from you.

“Bummer.” You laugh along. “But I need to go as well, or else I’ll miss first period.”

A while after your mother died, you found out she’d left you a considerable inheritance. You almost gave up the money until I convinced you the transaction could be easily done through lawyers, and you’d never have to see the reverend again.

As soon as that matter was settled, you left your minor gigs and saved the tuition for a university.

Despite enrolling in social work, you’ve continued teaching music at the institute.

That you could never leave. It makes you extra busy, but it also injects some unhinged motivation within you. I couldn’t be prouder.

Before you leave, a familiar song plays. Our song. After I sold it, the thing pops up on the radio now and then. I keep a small one turned on at home so I can catch it every time.

“Hey, there it is!” I perch on the counter closer to the music.

“I think I can stay a few minutes more.” You smile, hugging my back and resting your chin on my shoulder. “How is the contract with the One Direction guy going?”

“Doing great. He ordered three more songs.”

“Are you sure you can manage? With the new project and all?”

“I don’t know.” My bleak voice fades. “Perhaps it’ll be wiser to turn down some of them and concentrate on the film score.”

You turn me around and place a gentle kiss on my lips. “I think it’s best. Or else you’ll soon be stressed out of your bones and back to smoking.”

I chuckle, leaning my back on the counter. “It’s been a year, you know? Won’t happen again.”

“It better.” You feign a scowl. “Or else I’m calling Sharon.”

I smile. “Deal. Don’t forget, we’re meeting the gang at seven to celebrate. Harrison’s Pub.”

“Oh, I have a study session tonight. Might be coming late.”

“Will you text me if it goes longer than planned?”

“I will.” You peck my lips and grab your satchel.

“Andrew,” I call when you’re by the door. “Please don’t forget to text me.”

You offer me a fond smile. “I won’t. Promise.”

The front door closes and for a moment my eyes get lost in the place you disappeared. The high-pitched beep of the machine pulls me out of my reverie, and I pour exactly 200ml of hot, unsweetened black coffee into my mug.

“Sweet heavens, this is perfect,” I whisper with a dreamy sigh.

You moved in a few months ago. I won’t lie and say it was an easy transition.

We were both so familiar with being alone that growing used to each other’s routines, quirks, and pet peeves took considerable effort.

Mostly on my side. Letting go of control, learning your silences, and knowing when you need your space is something I struggle with every day.

But it’s labour I endure with great pleasure.

Our life sounds like a placid symphony, with various themes playing endlessly as the days go by.

The smell of fresh filter coffee every morning, which always brings up comments that it tastes awful, inspiring fake outrage on my side, just to humour you.

Long afternoon walks at Greenwich Park, our hands silently intertwined.

And late nights filled with music, yours and mine, that have a frequent tendency to turn into much spicier tempos afterwards.

Weekly visits to the institute, where the kids call me “Mr Westcott’s grumpy boyfriend,” though I’m sure they all know my name and do it anyway just to piss me off.

Nights at the pub with Danny, Ollie, Delia, Zoe and the gang, where we laugh so much our bellies ache.

The occasional family dinner. Mum trying to stuff us with more food than a human being can consume, my sister teasing us about when we’ll set a date because she already has the perfect dress for the occasion, and Nan Olympia saying you must have priority on the orphanage’s list should we ever want to adopt—and later performing a stage-worthy drama that we ought to do it soon, while she’s still alive.

You nearly giving me a heart attack when you brought home a stray cat that completely ruined our sofa.

Even if I secretly love cats, and you know it.

Your peaceful expression while you sleep, hair and eyelashes glistening gold when hit by the first morning light.

The way your bow-shaped lips widen when you notice I’m watching you, lazily rubbing your feet on mine and saying I should sleep more.

And how I know, without proof or certainty, that whatever life throws at us, we will face it side by side. Never alone. Not anymore.

That, for me, is true happiness.