Too Much Sax and Violins (at least that is what I think she said)
Too Much Sax and Violins (at least that is what I think she said)
December 25, 2024
I arose and went to the bar. Another took my place. It was his turn. A third, then a fourth, would take over while I was resting. It was the plan all along for she wanted it that way.
She begged for it to be that way.
I am getting too old for this. I look at the others and realize I have at least twenty years on each of them. While I may have the styles and techniques perfected, sheer physical endurance is what the others possess. I need to rest more frequently than I did before. It takes time to recover. The scotch I am holding is not helping, but it does taste good.
I figure I have nearly an hour before she calls my number. By then, she will want a pair, possibly three of a kind to perform. The fourth will make eye contact, permitting a glimpse of the hunger that awaits. The rest have no other role than stuffing a turkey at Thanksgiving.
I once worked with her at the insurance company. But, that was nearly a decade ago. She was forward from the start with ideas so preposterous to listen to, but insidious to think about, that I never had a chance.
She played by her own rules, designed for her to always win. When you got to know her, as so many men did, you wanted her to win. She needed to win. She desired the win. She fought for the win. If she didn’t win, you didn’t win.
Today, the others and I were winners. She had the endurance to take it all and keep coming back for more. She would want to repeat the best of today tomorrow. We were all single with nothing but time on our hands. Even if performing solo, she wanted our best. None of us had to be told otherwise.
Nearly an hour and I was correct. She wanted three of us to satisfy her needs. The fourth, poor soul, had to record it all for posterity. The air conditioner failed thirty minutes ago. The room smelled bad from the sweat. Joints were aching. Throats were parched. The neighbors were pounding on the walls trying to get us to stop. She couldn’t stop if she wanted. She reached for the base and licked her lips. One more time. In harmony.
When the police did arrive, they cited our group for the noise complaint. It was too late to be practicing our strings and her brass for this weekend’s concert. We all knew this, but what choice did we have? Our conductor, she, was a taskmaster of critical acclaim. It had to be her way or the highway.