Yeah, I even threw a little Alanis “You Oughta Know” in there. It’s the scorned woman’s mantra.
He reciprocated with a little Maroon 5 and on a particular Tuesday when he was feeling particularly brave, Sir Mix-A-Lot’s, “Baby Got Back.” That made me laugh.
It may seem romantic to some but it’s killing me.
I’m a wreck.
Every day, I enter my office to the sight of the notebook and a new flower. I hate how I look forward to seeing it there and am anxious to see what the pages have written in them. I hate how I fear it won’t be there and what I’d feel if he gave up. I haven’t slept in two weeks, fighting the feelings I have. He is tearing at my heartstrings.
He is also slowly creeping into my life in ways he probably doesn’t even realize. Like how the other day I accidentally opened the door while he was walking in, causing him to spill his coffee on his tie. Instead of being mad, he just let out this adorable grin and said, “You’d never believe how many of these I ruin on a daily basis.” I laughed a little before realizing I’m supposed to be mad at him. Or how he saw me having trouble opening a package because I needed to use both hands so he walked into my office, opened the package for me and then left, without a word. I should have thanked him, but of course, I didn’t.
Last week, he brought in this giant tub of York Peppermint patties and left them in the classroom. I sneak one only when I know he’s not in the building.
And then there’s how I always see him watching me assist Lisa’s class. Not for the entire session, but at least once a class I feel those golden eyes on me and I pretend I am not affected at all by him watching me teach. When I do chance a look up, it’s always the same. A mixture of intrigue and appreciation. I hate that look.
Today, there is silence in the room next to mine. It’s odd because Asher should be having a class about now. I peek into the room and see it is, in fact, empty. On the white board there’s a note stating the lecture was moved to the first floor performance space.
I turn around and look back toward my office. The notebook with today’s rose is nestled sweetly inside. It’s a yellow rose with red tips. I walk back to the desk, grab the book and walk it out of the room.
My feet move down the hallway, taking me down the stairwell, two at a time, curious about what awaits me downstairs. My hair flips as I round the stair landing and go down another flight. I hear music pouring through the walls.
I’m not the only one interested in what is happening in the performance room. Almost everyone who works in the building or who attends a class tonight is making their way down as well. They must hear the music coming through the doors or word has spread throughout the building that something special is going on.
I pull the heavy door open and walk through it. My pace quickens and then slows as I approach the performance room. I make my way through the people, slipping inside. And I see something I’ve never seen before.
An orchestra. A real life orchestra is in our building. The room was built to host concerts by the students, the capacity maxing out at two hundred and fifty. The orchestra on the stage is easily made up of fifty people, many performing from the rows as there’s not enough room on the stage.
The first violin section is in the walkway to the left of the stage, the cellos are on the right. The second violins and the violas are on the floor in the front. In the back of the stage are the harp, horns, percussion, trumpets, and basses set from left to right. In front of them are the clarinets, flutes, bassoons, and oboes.
The people playing the soft chords aren’t students. They’re adults. Classically trained adults. This is when it hits me. He brought the New York Philharmonic with him.