by Anna Martin
I left the shop with a suit bag over my arm and butterflies in my stomach. It was only an evening at the opera. I’d been once before with my mother, so I knew what to expect, but the added complication of Chris made the experience new and strange in a wonderfully welcome way.
He texted me just as I was parking the car. Unsurprisingly, he was smoking around by the stage door. His dark-suited figure glowed in the light from a window high above him and I only noticed his nervous energy as I approached.
“Hey,” I said softly, placing my hand on his upper arm.
“Hi,” he said shortly. Threw the glowing butt of the cigarette away, for my benefit, I knew that.
I caught his hand as he brought it back to his body. Turning his palm over, I studied the smooth, even color of his skin. Chris caught my expression and smiled.
“Makeup lady got to me,” he said by way of explanation. “They don’t mind what I look like on the street, but there’s a certain level of decorum around here. They covered up the one on my chest as well, just in case the color shines through under the lights.”
I nodded as if I understood, but deep down it bothered me that that little, vibrant part of him was being covered up. Chris watched me, frowning, as I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and rubbed at the thick layer of makeup that obscured his tattoo. The white came away with an orange smudge, and a small patch of red was then visible, just by his thumb.
Chris’s frown relaxed into a smile, and I lifted his hand, pressing the softest kiss into his red ink.
A tinny voice rang out over a metal speaker bolted to the outside wall. “Ladies and gentlemen of the orchestra, this is your call to the stage, please, your call to the stage. Thank you.”
“I need to go,” he said apologetically. I let go of his hand and nodded again.
“Me too. I’ll see you after.” My eyes darted to the stage door, where a bored-looking man read a newspaper, studiously ignoring us. I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. “For luck,” I explained.
Chris nodded and kissed me back, then disappeared back into the theater.
I had to rush back around to the front of the building; the usher on the door scowled at me, and I knew I’d left it too late to be admitted to the auditorium. I could already hear the orchestra tuning up. I was in luck, though, and the ticket that had been reserved for me was a private box, so I could sneak in without disturbing anyone else.
The view from the box was obstructed, and I couldn’t see the whole stage. I did, however, have a perfect, uninterrupted view right down onto the rhythm section. Chris walked through a door that probably couldn’t be seen from the auditorium, not looking up and going straight to his instruments, touching each of them in turn, checking that they were in the right places.
Only then did he look up, searching for me. I didn’t ever find out if he saw me, leaning eagerly over the balcony, trying desperately to catch his eye; just then the house lights started to dim, and I was forced to sit back to watch the show.
Not that I actually paid attention to anything that happened during the performance. My eyes were fixed on the man in the black suit, his face furrowed in concentration as he flipped page after page of sheet music and watched the conductor for cues. It was hard to correlate this intense, serious musician with the wild, laughing man I’d come to adore.
At the end of the first act, I went to the bar and ordered a whiskey, neither enjoying nor tasting the liquor as I sipped at it absently. I wanted to know what Chris was doing backstage. If he was outside chain smoking—that was the most likely scenario—I knew I didn’t have time to race around the side of the building to go and see him. Not if I wanted to be back in my seat again for the beginning of the second act.
The rest of the show passed in a blur; I enjoyed the music, but I was anxious, edgy to see him again, to be able to praise him and thank him for sharing this side of himself with me.
He’d called me on Tuesday night to apologize because he wouldn’t be able to make it to the lecture the following day, and I tried not to be too disappointed. The band, who he had rehearsal responsibilities with, were half of his source of income, and they needed to rehearse and promote like crazy to build up anticipation for their upcoming gig.
I also had a feeling he was afraid of not fitting in at the university, even though he wouldn’t say as much. His earlier confession about not excelling in school had touched me, in a way; I’d always taken my academic success for granted, studying came easy to me, and I had a genuine interest in my subject that fueled my career.
My line of work certainly exposed me to others who weren’t as lucky. My students were not easy to categorize, and doing so was often a fruitless task. There were those who were forced into taking my subject by the parents who were funding their education. Those who saw it as an easy ride. Those who took it because they were good at it, or perceived it as a good career move, or because they didn’t know what they wanted to do with their life and English was a solid base from which to move forward.
Chris didn’t fit into any of those categories, and although he was clearly successful in his own career, he hadn’t followed a traditional academic path.
As I took my seat for the second act, I resolved to spend more time paying attention to the actual music and less time making goo-goo eyes at the man in percussion. That resolution lasted about twenty minutes before I gave in and learned my first lesson when it came to the combination of Chris and music—that he was utterly captivating.
There was a little crease in his forehead as he split his focus between the sheet music and the conductor, his concentration never seeming to waver. As for the music itself, well, I’d never really been able to find my thing when it came to classical music. There had never been a hallelujah moment when it had all started to make sense, not like when I was given a book of poetry by a stuffy old aunt and spent an entire weekend absorbing it aged just fourteen.
Still, I could understand the passion if not the subject matter, and Chris had passion in droves.
A fair explosion of rapturous applause broke my reverie, and I joined in, surging to my feet alongside those either side of me. Even though common sense told me Chris wouldn’t be able to see out into the audience with the bright stage lights shining in his eyes, I still let myself indulge in a silly fantasy that he could see me.
I had no idea what post-concert etiquette was as far as going backstage to meet him was concerned and, as such, let the crowd surging for the exit carry me out onto the street. The night was still fairly warm, and by the time I’d extracted myself, he was there, waiting for me on the steps to the building.
“How did you get out here so fast?” I asked, placing my hand on his upper arm to get his attention.
It worked—he whirled around with a smile on his face and shrugged. “None of the kit is mine. I just had to grab my bag. Do you want to go for a drink?”
The words came out in a rush, and I realized that he was nervous. Nervous for my reaction.
“Chris,” I said. “You were wonderful.”
He ducked his head and blushed. “Thank you. Drink?”
I nodded, and he led us down the street, past where I could see fellow audience members drinking champagne in wine bars, to a smaller bar that almost reminded me of the hole-in-the-wall pubs that were abundant in Edinburgh.
“Let me get you one,” I said as he reached for his wallet.
“I’ll get the first round.”
I nodded and took a moment to look around.
The bar was narrow, probably only a few meters from one wall to the other, although it stretched back quite a way, with little tables and booths dotting the walls. The patrons drank whiskey in short tumblers or pints of dark ale and wore hats made of the same tweed fabric as the upholstery in the booths.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” I said softly as we waited for the barmaid to come down our end. “It’s great.”
“One of the horn section told me about it,�
�� Chris said. “Nice, right?”
“Very,” I agreed.
We both ordered beers, and I heaped praise on him, much of which he neatly deflected. I was surprised. Chris had struck me as a man confident in himself and his achievements. Both bottles were drained at almost the same time, and I knew that if I was going to drive home, I shouldn’t drink a second.
“When will I see you again?” I blurted as I walked him back to his car.
“Soon, I hope,” he said softly. “I think you’re fascinating.”
I winced. “Is that a good thing?”
Chris bit back a smile and wet his lips as his cheeks strained not to break into a full-fledged grin. Then he reached out and cupped my cheek in his palm.
“Yes,” he said. Then he kissed me. I was too stunned to properly kiss him back, a point that made me furious once he’d pulled away.
He was two steps toward his bike when I regained my senses enough to grab him by his wrist.
“Chris, wait,” I said. “Should I call you?”
He nodded, that same amused expression dancing across his features.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Good night, Rob.”
“Night,” I said vaguely.
He pulled his helmet from where it had been locked to the back of the bike and pulled it on, then kicked it into action and pulled into the traffic. After a moment I forced myself to move. I’d been standing on the spot, probably frowning and definitely staring after him.
It was creepy.
On the drive back to my flat, I debated with myself on whether or not the night counted as a date. I didn’t think it did. There had not been any flowers, for one, and I was a great believer in the significance of flowers being sent to someone I was dating. They were not just for women.
Then again, he had kissed me before we parted ways. A kiss, especially the sort of kisses that Chris was capable of dishing out, was not the sort of thing one took lightly. Warm breath and the flick of a hot tongue against the seam of my lips…. Yes, that was definitely a date-type kiss.
Maybe I was over-thinking things. Heaven knows it wouldn’t have been the first time.
On reflection of my previous sexual and romantic partners (this did not take very long), Chris was easily the most sexual of the lot. Yet we’d not made any further strides toward being intimate with each other, not since he’d stroked me to orgasm in my kitchen.
Opening the fridge and reaching for the cream still brought a hot flush of pleasure and embarrassment to my cheeks.
I resolved, as I passed over the cream and selected milk to go in my tea, to send flowers to him the next day.
There was a little florist that I passed on my way to work, and I headed there rather than to one of the larger commercial places. Despite their small size, the shop had a large and beautiful range, and it took me more than a few minutes to decide whether or not I wanted to send a message hidden in the blooms.
My instinct was to go bright and varied and unusual; birds of paradise or tiger lilies, maybe. But on contemplation they seemed too brash and not romantic enough. I’d passed over the roses on my first sweep of the store, but a closer look revealed a selection of dark pink flowers, still in their buds. They weren’t red, or baby pink, not too obvious and slightly unusual, and the meaning was clear.
I signed my name on the card but nothing more and drew Chris’s card from my wallet, still with his C.J.F. (1) written on the back of it, to give his address for the delivery.
His response, when it came later that afternoon, was everything I’d been hoping for.
No one has ever sent me flowers before. They’re beautiful. Thank you.
It gave me the confidence to keep a semi-regular conversation going between us over the following few days, nothing too intense or serious but enough that we got used to a light banter back and forth. It was just text messages, no actual conversations, but his good night message every night made me smile. Slowly but surely, he was creeping into my life.
THERE could be little doubt that I was fairly terrified about meeting Chris’s friends. If it wasn’t bad enough that I was so much older than all of them, I couldn’t help but feel that they were so much cooler than me. They were in a rock and roll band, for goodness’ sakes. Chris made it easier on me by taking me to the house one night after I’d finished work and cooking me dinner. The others were out when I arrived and clearly had their own evening routines, which continued despite my presence.
I met Danny first: a tall, olive-skinned, lanky man with bright eyes and an easy demeanor. He said hi, grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter, and disappeared. A few minutes later, music started on one of the upper floors.
Alexis, or Lex, as she introduced herself, and John were next. They seemed at first to be an odd pair to me. She was small with vibrantly red hair and creamy pale skin, and bright blue eyes that she lined heavily with makeup. He was clearly the more laidback of the pair, wearing flip-flops and khaki shorts and a fleece sweatshirt. His thick, light brown hair was a mass of curls, and he wore a scruffy beard. I liked him on sight.
“He’s only a few years younger than you,” Chris said after they, too, had moved on. “John. He’s going to be twenty-nine next week. Are you coming to his birthday?”
“When is it?” I asked.
“Next Friday night.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
The party was being held at the house, and I had no idea how the little group had amassed such a large quantity of friends and acquaintances in such a short amount of time. I arrived with whiskey as a gift and beer to drink and wimped out, calling Chris when I arrived instead of going to the door. Even though it was only 9:00 p.m., the party seemed well underway.
When I saw him appear on the porch, I climbed out of the car, surprised and oddly pleased when he took off from the porch with a jump and a run to launch himself into my arms. I caught him, laughing, and kissed him deeply.
“I missed you,” he said when we broke apart. It had only been a few days since we last saw each other.
“Come on inside,” I said. “You’ll freeze out here without a coat.”
Again, Chris surprised me by holding on to my hand as we navigated the party, introducing me to people he knew from the symphony or fans and groupies that they’d already picked up during their short time in the area.
John and Lex were in the kitchen. He seemed pleased with the whiskey and made room in the fridge for the beer.
“I’m hiding this,” he said, holding up the whiskey. “Otherwise it’ll get destroyed tonight.”
“Good plan,” Lex told him, and he kissed her lightly on the top of the head before heading back to their room.
The entire evening had the feel of one of the dorm parties that I rarely took part in during my own college career. Most of the guests were of the right age, and even if we were spared drinking games and beer bongs, that was made up for with all of the horrendously drunk, skimpily dressed young ladies in attendance.
One couldn’t help but admire the way Chris easily and confidently deflected the attentions of those girls, and in such a way that they didn’t even know that they’d been brushed aside as easily as an irritating yet beautiful moth. Even as I struck up conversations with his friends, his eyes kept meeting mine across the room, little flickers to make sure he knew where I was.
His protectiveness was just endearing enough not to be annoying.
I’d just finished giving John instructions on how to get to the steakhouse that served some of the best beef and barbecue in the whole state when Chris sidled up to me and slipped his hand in mine. I looked down at him with a smile, amused enough to give him a little kiss on the lips when his pout demanded it.
“Come with me,” Chris said, tugging at my hand.
“See you again,” I said to John. He nodded, lips pressed together in amusement as if he knew exactly what Chris was up to. In all likelihood, he did.
I followed him through to the hall
way, where it was slightly quieter. Chris stopped short and turned to face me.
“We need to have sex,” he said, a slightly desperate look on his face.
“We will,” I said. “I thought we agreed to take it slow, though?”
“Rob.” Chris spoke my name reverently and stepped forward to take my face in his hands. “Rob, you’re amazing. You’re possibly the most amazing man I have ever met, and certainly the most amazing man I have ever dated. You are sweet and kind and loving and funny and so adorable, and the sex could be absolutely fucking terrible.”
“You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?” I said, amused.
He dropped his head forward to rest against mine. “Yes.”
“Come on, then,” I said, taking his hand once more and lacing my fingers with his.
“Come on what?”
“Come on home with me.” Something about this man infused me with confidence.
His eyes widened comically. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” I said lightly, more than a little amused. “I like sex, Chris. I’m pretty sure I’m going to like sex with you. And now,” I leaned in and lightly bit the end of his nose, “I have something to prove.”
His response was to rock his hips forward so his pelvis bumped into mine, emphasizing the hardness he was concealing in his jeans and the need he had for me. I took his hand and led him through the house, stopping by the closet at the front door to find my coat.
“Do you need to bring anything with you?” I asked before we left.
“You’ve got condoms? And lube?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m set,” he said.
Because I could, I kissed him hard. This was no teasing little brush of lips on lips but a promise of what he could expect from me.
I wasn’t too surprised when he groped me for most of the journey as I drove across town to my flat. I managed to swat his hand away every time he went to undo my fly, but this wasn’t a sufficient deterrent for him to stop rubbing my groin through my jeans.