Page 125 of Damaged

I check the time. The music starts in forty-five minutes. He’ll have to meet me at the symphony.

We don’t have security, but we do have a hired driver while we’re here. I text them that I’m ready to be driven, and then I text James, telling him to meet me at the symphony.

I look great—at least I think so. I’m in a classic brown wool dress that matches my eyes. James would love me like this, and I assure myself he’ll see it.

I’m quiet on the drive to the theater. My nervousness grows as we get closer. We pass families and couples walking through the snow towards the orchestra hall.

No one is alone, apart from the employees in high-visibility vests shoveling snow.

Of course there’s not—nobody goes to the orchestra alone.

There’s a little sculpture garden right out my window, and if it wasn’t for the snow, I’d wait here for James instead of milling about next to others.

I get out of the car, and I keep my phone in my hand pathetically so all the people who glance at the girl walking in by herself can see it’s obvious she’s waiting for somebody.

Inside, I sit on a bench by the bathroom. I’m not overdressed. The French Canadians take the symphony seriously. Plenty of men pass me in their suits, and women wear their pearls.

I stay on the bench glancing at my phone every few seconds. I stay there for almost twenty minutes until an older usher in a navy uniform comes over to me and kindly says something in French. He extends his arm towards the hall doors. I know he’s telling me to take my seat.

I smile and pretend I speak French. “Merci.”

I don’t want to go in alone. I feel a tearing anxiety. I want to leave. I don’t want to sit alone. But my legs disobey my brain. The usher is watching me, and I don’t want to strangely walk outside into the snow.

I go through the doors and walk down the aisle. The lights are on, and people are still talking. I show my ticket to another usher, and he guides me to the center of the hall. Two empty seats are in the dead middle of the section. Great. This appears to be lover’s lane, because our seats are surrounded by happy couples old and young.

I smile tightly as I squeeze past everyone and sit. The empty seat next to me makes me burn and cringe with embarrassment. It’s still empty when the lights dim, and the people on either side of me steal a glance my way.

They’re probably thinking I got stood up. And what’s it matter if they are? Why am I so susceptible to what a bunch ofstrangers are thinking? Obviously, they should be thinking it’s a snow delay.

In the dark, I quit trying to look casual. I sigh and let my sadness show on my face. Soon a piano is illuminated under a spotlight. A young brunette begins to play, and a light crash of strings accompanies the first notes.

I didn’t grab a program. I don’t know what piece this is, but of course it’s heartbreakingly tragic.

There are a few uplifting major keys. But most of it is played in dreary minor.

I picture James’s face. I see him smile. I see him kiss me for the first time on the forehead in Egypt and again on the lips on the dark beach in Morocco.

I see those emerald eyes shine.

But what I feel is the empty chair beside me and the melancholy music emphasizing his absence.

His hand should be resting commandingly on my thigh. Those eyes should be a glance away.

The song transitions into flutes. Into bright music that makes me picture birds tweeting in a spring meadow. I realize I preferred the music sad. At least it matched my mood.

It’s a little mocking now. Comical, as the tears come. I’m worried about James. Worried sick, but even if he comes marching down the aisle, our problems are not fixed. This relationship is still plagued by his work.

I don’t know how much more of this springy music I can take. I want to leave. To hear the silence outside thick from the falling snow. But I’m locked in place. Staring wide-eyed at the ensemble.

Even if he arrives safe and sound, there’s something about these dramatic chords that tell me the truth.

Doomed. To continue dating like this… It’s doomed.

All the love in the world be damned.

James

We’ve been in a bumpy holding pattern for the last half hour. I know I’m already late, but it’s the fact that I can’t even send a fucking text to tell Sophia that drives me crazy.

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