The symphony will be starting it’s season here soon. I love going to the symphony. The atmosphere is subdued and yet heightened. This time of year I enjoy an ongoing fantasy.
The fantasy of walking through the box office foyer and seeing just inside the lobby a fine looking gentleman. He is dressed in well fitted slacks, a tailored white shirt open at the neck, and a black sport coat. He is not under dressed for the occassion. Everything fits well. The length of the slacks, the fit around his buttocks, the clean crisp lines of a fresh shirt and a sport coat that looks comfortable and classy without being stuffy. He is out for the evening, not just getting out of the office. We make eye contact and I realize as soon as I’m able to break the moment that I may have looked too long. He’s probably married, at least dating someone. Guys don’t go to the symphony because they want to…do they? He is most likely waiting for his date to come out of the restroom.
I start to head up the carpeted stairs. I’ve always preferred the balcony. My hand takes the railing and I slow down just enough to glance back. I want to see what kind of woman he admires. I want to see what she looks like. In the quick glance, I get a picture perfect moment to take with me for awhile. He was still standing alone. He was looking at me. I smile, not completely to myself, as I turn around and pay attention to the stairs.
I’ve embarrassed myself enough in the past thinking someone was interested in making my aquaintence, or wanting to hear me babble on. I’ve been wrong plenty. I’m not about to embarrass myself tonight. In the pair of heels I’ve decided to wear I have also decided to pay attention to the stairs. I may be moving quicker than intended, but now I want to get out of sight. He was marvelous to look at; steady stance, eyes that catch mine.
I don’t remember the rest of the stairs, the landing or the usher. I have a favorite seat. All the seats in the balcony are unassigned There is always a great selection to choose from. I take my favorite, not center, not at the end, but a little in from the aisle, the fourth row up from the balcony wall. I let myself blush profusely then as the lights come down in the auditorium.
The musicians are on stage doing their warm up. The cacaphony of instruments stops abruptly and the master of ceremony walks on stage to prepare us for the conductor. I see in my peripheral vision the man in the sport coat side stepping into my row. He takes the seat next to mine. His voice is pleasant. “Good evening. Is this seat taken?” I am sure my eyes are wide with disbelief; I can only wag my head, no. This man settles into the chair and opens his program. I watch him trying not to appear too surprised. Internally I am waiting for the woman he arrivved with to finally join him. No one is coming from that direction. As he settles himself comfortably and confidently I find myself sitting back more comfortably as well. I am struck immediately at how nice it is to have someone join me at the symphony.
This is where the stories in my head diverge. He invariably puts his hand over mine on the armrest. It is in such a way that I know this is no accident. He has done this with intention. I am thrilled.
Sometimes, most times, in my fantasy he takes my hand from the armrest and places it on his thigh. The fabric is fitted to his leg, stretched taut. Over the course of the musical movement he moves my hand up into his lap and the heat rising from his slacks warms not just my hand. My peripheral vision shows me he is watching the stage. But the growing warmth under my hand tells me his concentration isn’t on the music. I am emboldened to lightly squeeze this growing heat. His hand rests firmly over mine; almost, but not quite, as if we are merely holding hands. It is nice to have someone sit next to me at the symhony.
The other fantasy is when he takes his hand from the armrest and places it on my thigh. And though I place my hand over his it is a don’t-take-your-hand-away gesture. His fingertips are near the hem of my dress. Hardly a threat, though I don’t think of him as a threat. He fingers the hem out of the way to have his fingertips resting on my hose. He merely plays with the velvet hem as if that were his interest and yet we both know the hem is moving higher. When his fingers touch my skin at the top of my hose his breath stops almost imperceptively. But, I know; I knew it was coming. Again from the side view, I see a slight smile on his face that melts into his skin. As the movement concludes he calmly brings the hem of my black velvet dress back down to where it started. The lights come up for intermission. We smile to one another. “May I buy you a glass of champagne in the lobby?” he asks. That would be lovely.
