Rhapsodic Interlude

The Concerto

Lynn

I will not bite my boyfriend's head off.

I will not bite my boyfriend's head off.

I will not bite my boyfriend's head off.

Even if I really really really wanted to.

Fuck, it's not like he's actually done anything explicitly wrong... Well, except that he's acting as petulant as Veruca fucking Salt when she couldn't get a golden fucking goose. We hadn't said more than two words the entire drive to the symphony hall—well, the adjacent parking garage—and Ethan had spent the whole time on his phone. I tapped my fingers along the steering wheel, copying the beat of whatever song had shuffled on. I knew I was purposefully testing him, but I couldn't find it in myself to feel guilty. He's let me down so many times...

"They're putting up signage for the next concert soon," I said into the tense quiet.

"Hm?" Ethan asked, taking way too long to look up from his phone. I gritted my teeth.

"The press and signage for our next concert," I repeated, nodding at a series of banners attached to the light posts standing along the street. There wasn't a ton of traffic this evening, which was good, because in true petty-Ethan fashion, we were running late. My leg started jostling and bouncing. He would never admit to directly being so disruptive, but how long did it really take to pick out a watch?

"Oh," he said, "cool."

I will not bite my boyfriend's head off.

I fought the urge to slam my heeled foot on the brake, or the gas, or his face. Why was I so touchy tonight? Getting to put on my favorite slinky velvet dress and ridiculous heels usually put me in a good mood, but I was still very sour patch kids. Hopefully some good music would bring out my sweet side.

Doubtful.

I didn't bother trying to rouse more monosyllabic responses from Ethan as I finally turned in to the parking garage. That juice was definitely not worth the squeeze. I parked in my reserved spot—thank the sweet angelic babies for small benefits—and we got out, still not bothering to talk. I grabbed my fancy-date-night clutch and took a second to adjust my dress. Though I didn't necessarily mean for it, my stage-siren side had a tendency to show herself in my fashion choices; the velvet dress clung to me like a second skin, the neckline plunging almost to my navel, with long sleeves ending in points draping over the backs of my palms, a skirt that reached the floor despite my not-inconsiderable height and 4-inch heels, and a slit that threatened to show off my hip bones. I lovingly referred to this dress as my vampire gown; the blood-red velvet and figure-hugging cut made me feel like the queen of the damned, and fuck if that wasn't powerful. To preserve just a bit of my modesty since this was an orchestra concert and not a trip to Transylvania to become Dracula's bride, I had layered a fitted black camisole under the velvet, so though the dress plunged halfway to China, I wasn't showing off more skin than was decent.

Ethan, to his credit, was dressed impeccably. He wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit with a black silk shirt, and a deep burgundy tie with a subtle silver embroidered pattern, matched in his pocket square. The suit was perfectly tailored to fit his athletic build, and he finished the look with a pair of black patent leather loafers without socks, showing off his ankles. I would never understand that. Why would men wear leather shoes without socks? What was the allure of the ankles? What it a commentary on the restrictions of women's fashion in the Victorian era?

I was yanked from my salacious thoughts about pre-Industrial era fashion norms as we stepped on the sidewalk; a gust of wind caught the long skirt of my dress, sending a chill up my calves and parts beyond.