But damn, he was a jerk. The cocky way he’d grinned when he made the comment about spanking him. I’d wanted to slap the arrogance right off his face.
Until he kissed you, that is, the annoying voice inside my head reminded me.
“He didn’t kiss me,” I argued back, out loud, while my cheek burned at the memory.
“Who didn’t kiss you?” A female voice pipes up and I turn my head to the doorway.
“Ugh, nobody, an asshole at the music store.” I tell my best friend and colleague, Sarah.
“But you wanted him to?” Her face lights up, always ready for a gossip, and always disappointed by my lack of ever having any.
“NO!” I yell, a little louder than I’d intended.
“WHOA!” I hear for the second time today. “So someone you didn’t want to kiss you… didn’t kiss you.” Sarah repeats, trying to make sense of something I don’t have sense of yet.
“Right.” I nod, hoping my apparent lack of information will stop her questions.
“So why are we talking about it?”
“We weren’t.”
“You were, alone here in your classroom.” She points out.
“I was just… processing…”
“Right. So um… what was this person like, who didn’t kiss you, even though you didn’t want him to?”
“He was…. infuriating.” I scrunch up my face again, remembering his face as he winked at me before he ran out of the store.
“And?”
“He STOLE from me!”
“He STOLE?” She looks even more confused than before.
“Well, kinda?” Well, he did, kind of.
“What did he steal?”
“My cello rosin!”
“How did he steal it? From your purse?”
“No, he just took it. In the store.” Ugh, why isn’t she getting it?
“So he didn’t pay??”
“No. Well, yes, his friend paid.”
“He paid you?”
“No, he paid George, for the rosin.”
“So, he stole from George?”
“No, I told you his friend paid.” This was going nowhere.
“So it … wait. What? So he didn’t steal at all!”
“Yes! It was mine!”
“Had you paid for it?”
“No…”
“So…”
“Shut up, it was just mine, OK, and he took it. And then left.” I cross my arms indicating I was done talking about this.
“Without kissing you.” Ugh, again with the kissing. You’d think he’d kissed her.
“Yes. Well…” Technically…
“Wait. He DID kiss you?”
“Well, just on the cheek!”
“Way to bury the lead! Tell me about this cheek kisser!” Sarah jumps up at the word ‘kisser’ entirely too excited about nothing.
“I told you, he’s a thief!” I frown at her. Whose side was she on?!
“You gotta let go of the rosin, babe,” she sighs.
“Never! Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I wave my hand, dismissing any more questions.
“Fine. What are you doing tonight, other than not thinking about rosin-thieving cheek kissers?”
“Nothing. Which is exactly what I want to be doing, so whatever you’re thinking, no.”
“Come on, I have tickets to this amazing group called No Strings Attached, they’re a string quartet playing mashups of classical music and rock covers.”
“Wow. That sounds absolutely… horrendous.” I shudder at what that might sound like.
“Why?”
“Er, hello. I’m a classically trained pianist and music teacher.”
“Don’t be such a snob. Trust me, they’re brilliant. They just won a Grammy, first ever non-lyrical Brand New Artist winner! Anyway, you never go out anywhere with me. You know I have to live vicariously through you now that I’m married.”
I did feel a little bad. I had been so busy with work lately that we’d hardly spent any time away from school together. She’d been there through everything good and bad in my life and I guess I could give her one night out.
“Fine. But I’m bringing a book.” I warn her.
“YAY! Pick you up at 7:00.” And she skips out of the room before I can change my mind.
SEBASTIAN
“What time is it?” I get up from my seat for the fifth time in the last two minutes.
“Add about thirty-six seconds to what I told you the last time you asked.” Brad answers from his spot on the beanbag, arms and legs spread out like an octopus, his violin bow see-sawing up and down, balancing on top of his forehead.
“I wasn’t listening.” I tell him honestly. I turn to the greenroom door and wrench it open, peering down the hallway at the crew rushing around, doing their jobs. Which includes ignoring me.
“Ask me again in thirty seconds.” Brad offers.
“Gah, just fucking tell me already.” I slam the door shut and sit back down on the couch, pushing Jez’s hand away when he puts in on my knee to stop the incessant jiggling.
“Chill, man, it’s 6:30, we’re on in an hour.” Brad relents.
I don’t think I can last an hour. My adrenaline’s peaked and it needs to act now. My fingers are twitching, they’ve played every chord progression of the first few songs over and over against my leg and they were itching to wrap around my cello.
“Can’t we just go on now?” I ask them seriously, my leg jiggling so much the water in the jug on the coffee table builds up momentum and threatens to spill over the rim.
“No. Not if you want anyone to be there to listen, man.” Jez answers, his voice trying to stay calm but ending up somewhere between amused and over it.
“Since when did we care if anyone was listening?” I’m getting desperate now. I stand back up and start to pace, drumming my fingers against my leg and biting the fingers on my left hand.
“Since we started charging them seventy dollars a pop to show up and listen.” Marius calls out from his yoga stance in the corner. I feel like pushing him over and shoving his bow somewhere downward on his dog.
I can feel their eyes on me as I pace the room. Walking back and forth, corner to corner, around the chaises with no pattern in mind, muttering to myself, reminding myself of the set list, of opening and closing comments, crowd pleasers.
“Man, he hasn’t been this bad in a long time.” I vaguely hear Marius say.
“Maybe since Amsterdam.” Jez chuckles.