She trips over her own high heel as she runs from the taxi into the building, trying to avoid stepping in any puddles on the way. She is late. She’s never been late for anything in her entire life, but today she is late. As the door closes behind her, she stops for half a second to take a breath and try to restore her heart beat to a more regular rhythm. Moving quickly again, she opens her purse and grabs her ticket from the first slot in her wallet. The lady at the door gives her a look, staring at the wet spots on her blouse and sighs. She can hear the first notes twinkling overhead through the speakers. Impatiently, she starts swaying from one foot to the other. Finally the woman scans the ticket and lets her walk through the double doors.
“Miss, your skirt is tucked up under your...well….” The ticket lady called back to her. Flustered, she runs a hand down her backside trying to straighten her folds. Wandering down the dimly lit hall, she strains her eyes to see what number her seat is on the ticket. The notes get faster and louder and her heart beats along with them. She opens a door and sound comes pouring out like the Great Flood. She quickly sits down in the first seat she finds and stares. The light shines down on the stage, reflecting off the chandeliers on its way. She’s distracted for a moment by the sparkle, but her attention is returned to the symphony as the dynamics grow louder.
When the concert ends, she stands up with every other person in the performance hall. She makes her way down to the stage and tries to get the conductor to notice her. He sees her and kneels down so he can talk to her.
"That was absolutely wonderful!" she says."Yes, it was, thank you." He stands up and turns around.
"Wait!" she calls after him. He motions that he has to leave and walks offstage with the rest of the orchestra. Chewing her lip, she looks around her; most of the audience is gone now. She makes her way back to the front foyer, waving at the ticket lady as she leaves. Looking around for a taxi, she stands under the doorway trying to not get wet from the rain. Finally, one pulls up and she gets in.
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Back at her apartment, she kicks off her heels at the door, ignoring the light switch. Glancing over at the clock, she peels off her skirt and drops it by the couch. Ten-thirty PM. Ten-thirty one. She unbuttons her blouse and walks down the hallway to the bathroom, letting it fall on the floor half way there. She stops at the full length mirror, and looks at herself: wet, stringy dark hair, mascara and eye liner dripping down her high cheek bones as if she'd been crying. She feels like crying. She runs her hand over her lips, wiping off her lipstick. Her eyes are drawn to her hips. She stares, silently criticizing the way her hip bones stick out further than her stomach. Shrugging her shoulders at her appearance, and chewing on her bottom lip, she starts a bath and walks back into the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator door, pulls out a couple Tupperware containers, and looks through their contents. Choosing cold rice, she finds a fork and pads back to the bathroom. She sets the rice on the side of the sink and finishes undressing. Picking up her dinner she slips into the water, wincing at the hot temperature, and closes her eyes.
She takes a couple bites of rice and puts her feet under the running water. When her toes are numb from the heat, she uses her right foot to turn off the water. Silence falls through out the bathroom. She stops eating and opens her eyes. Looking around, she experiences a temporary blindness as her eyes adjust to the dark. It's too quiet. Her mind is too quiet. She sets her rice on the side of the tub and reaches over to turn on her shower radio. After a moment, the quiet hum of string instruments begin to fill the bathroom, bouncing off the tile floors. She closes her eyes the moment she recognizes the familiar march of Beethoven's fifth symphony, second movement. Andante Con Moto. She lifts her hands, mimicking a conductor. The lower strings start their circular passage then hand it off to the upper strings. The winds come in with a pulsing beat, leading the phrase over the edge, dropping off into nothingness. She brings in the flute and the clarinet, letting them sing their duet. Three minutes of keeping her arms moving fluidly yet not naturally; the conducting of someone who's practiced for hours alone, with out a live orchestra, just herself and the radio.
She opens her eyes and is brought back into reality. She's sitting in a tub of chilled bath water, in a bathroom where the only sound is coming from a commercial on the radio. She reaches over to turn the radio off, knocking her rice into the bathtub with her. Sighing, she stands up, grabs a towel and walks out of the bathroom.
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