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A pre-Covid continuation of a fictional story.
Frank, realizing that Celia was a short distance from the concession
stand, wished he listened to the usher who tried unwittingly to
point him in the correct direction. He reminded himself that he
was not in a crowded subway car when he plotted the path.
"I don't know. I don't have an opinion."
"Oh, that's not it. You don't have an opinion
because you don't care!"
"Listen. This is the first time I ever heard of Cante Gitano
Flamenco let alone the guitar great Simpaticas."
"Yeah, sure!"
"Look. I'm here, and I'm trying to get use to
it! Isn't that enough?!"
"Excuse me," beseeched Frank nervously as he attempted
to wedge between the quarrel—both taking a moment to look
away in exasperation: the man with his arms crossed; the woman
with one hand on her waist, the other fluttering against the opposite
clavicle.
Shoulders hunched, Frank's hands were pressed together in
front of his face pointing in the direction he was headed. The
gap between the two widened; however, the rift closed immediately
once he stepped past. The couple resigned to the fact, in the
wake of the ireful undertow, that they were forever prone to impassionedness.
Their mimicked wry smirk indicated their mutual fate, which they
were familiar.
Celia noticed Frank's upstream wriggling. She chuckled when
his fatigue caused him to apologize profusely after he brushed
elbows with her rival's partner. Celia interrupted the mea
culpa and pulled Frank aside by the wrist.
"I can't believe this place is so packed," she
brimmed with mirth. She smiled, flattening her upper lip and aimed
her champion visage at the intended.
Frank revealed that he did not fare well in large gatherings.
"From what I've seen, you're not a fan of small
groups in elevators, either."
"So you noticed."
"Yes, I did. Let's work on that beer-buzz. My treat
on Brian's tab."
"Seltzer with lime will do for now, thanks."
Celia ordered two of the same, and was fine with the lemon substitute.
While giving him the refreshment, "can I ask you a question?
Are you a lightweight? Because Brian is a heavyweight."
"He's an art consultant/curator, right?"
"No. I mean, yes. Sort of. Brian likes to drink is what
I meant to say."
Frank was a bit put off that Celia did not follow his complimentary
attempt to change the subject. He hoped she would be more amenable
to providing insight on Brian's professional practice. He
took a sip to ponder the awkward moment.
Celia held the plastic glass to her lips. Out of the corner of
her eye she saw the taunting woman with her husband in line purchasing
a drink. The woman made a friendly salutation.
"Brian went outside to make a phone call. Let's catch
up with him. We shouldn't talk businesses anyhow."
Frank tossed his empty glass into the receptacle as did Celia
place the liquid container without a splash.
Brian got their attention when they exited the building. He was
standing with his back to the facade.
"You two having fun," he joked.
"How's he doing," asked Celia jealously.
Brian sniffed. Thinking before he spoke, "Fine. We will
be meeting a colleague of mine after the concert. Frank, what
do you think thus far?"
"I found the atonal singing accompanied with the tonal guitar
licks phenomenal. I wish I could've translated the lyrics
so that my understanding wouldn't have been so abstract."
Brian exhaled a laugh at Frank's bluff, then commented,
"So if I understand you correctly, what you're saying
is ‘if you knew you were coming, you would've baked
a cake?' Is that the crux of your subtextual comprehension
theory?"
"Cante Gitano Flamenco is a traditional Spanish form of
music centuries old with various styles and metric combinations,
if you haven't noticed by the rhythmic clapping," explained
Celia. "I started taking flamenco dance lessons a couple
months ago. That's, that's why I purchased the tickets."
Brian rolled his eyes at Celia's cultural edification attempt.
"How's your seat in the nose bleeds," hectored
Brian.
"The altitude is fine. There's plenty of breathing
room. The audio is fantastic, which is great because there wasn't
much to see on the stage. Thanks for the ticket."
"My pressure. Perhaps we should go up before the rush of
the pack."
Frank bowed his cranium in obeisance.
Celia knew that Brian was being his cantankerous self. She wished
he offered to sit in the balcony. At least then she would be able
to sit with someone more receptive to the program.
Brian entered the Hall. Frank stepped forward. Celia tugged his
sleeve and gave him a worried look, which he interpreted to mean
that he was being discourteous.
"Sorry. After you."
The lobby lights wavered dim-bright, dim-bright, dim.
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