• Little by Little

    He says he's changed.

    I wonder if he means it. He doesn't look any different. He's still the same old Craig--icy blue eyes, sandy skin, hair the color of the midnight sky. He's still the same old beautiful Craig.

    There's something about him, though, that's different. There's a shake in his strong hands, a fear hiding behind those perfect eyes.

    I ask him what happened, and he doesn't answer. I ask him again, and he turns away.

    My hands race to his cheeks, I cradle his head in my hands. I beg him to tell me what's happened. I am frantic. He is calm.

    He just breathes between my palms, cool, long breaths. He says not to worry. He says he's fine. I somehow doubt him.

    The concert hall is emptying slowly. The noise is dying down, and soon enough it's just me and Craig and the dimmed lights of the room. He says he has to go. I seize his arm and tell him he can't.

    I'm close to him, very close to him, and I can now clearly see the tearstains on his lapel. The threads of his tux jacket are worn and fraying. They're beaten and dying, just like I can tell he is.

    I want to fix him. I just want to plead with him and hold him and tell him I'm sorry for everything I did wrong. I know he wouldn't listen.

    But I still find myself wanting him to sit down with me and talk to me. I haven't seen him in a year. I've missed him. So I ask him to stay.

    He looks at me and says he really shouldn't, but that he can't refuse the offer. So we sit down in the plush seats of the concert hall and kind of stare at each other for a second.

    Craig smiles painfully. "You look really nice tonight, Kaye." he says.

    I glance down at what I'm wearing--just a simple black shift dress with white chiffon lining and a pair of black patent leather kitten heels. I don't look any different than normal. I don't think I do. I thank him anyway and ask him what it was like in Europe.

    "Amazing. I can't begin to describe it. The whole place is just...beautiful. The music, the women--"

    "The women?" I ask, something in me suddenly hurting.

    "Kaye, they're gorgeous. And nicer than American women." His eyes are starry. His smile is broken.

    My heart sinks. "So...so you met someone, then?"

    He sighs. "Yeah."

    "Oh."

    His eyes sink to my clasped hands. "But, Kaye, that's why I say I've changed."

    "What?"

    It takes him a moment to say anything, and when he does, his voice is sharp and tearing and fading. "She broke me."

    I don't understand. "Who broke you, Craig?"

    "This girl, this perfect, beautiful girl." He sniffs, those gorgeous eyes suddenly dulling. "Oh, God, Kaye, she was perfect. And she was beautiful. And she said she loved me, and then she was gone."

    A flood of memories come back to me. Nights hushed inside his Ford Explorer, the skin of his legs brushing mine, the soft sounds of a Rachmaninov piano concerto drifting through the air as he pulled me to his chest.

    I force myself to remember that those days are gone now, but the pain in his voice only recalls those evenings we spent in unholy bliss. He doesn't say anything else.

    "Craig..." I murmur, searching for words. "I'm so sorry." I reach for his folded hands but he refuses to let me take them.

    "She ruined Europe for me." he turns away. "I'm never going back."

    I shake my head. "You can't let a girl ruin your life like that, Craig. You found your passion in Europe, didn't you?"

    His voice is gravelly. "I can't even play my violin anymore without thinking of her. She killed my talent. I can't write music anymore."

    "Your music is beautiful, don't say that. Would you have been here tonight playing if it wasn't?" I ask him, hoping he'll open up and break that sadness that's pervading him.

    "I wasn't playing anything I wrote, Kaye. It's not the same. There's no emotion in it."

    I so badly want to embrace him and tell him it's okay, that I'm here, that no one's ever going to hurt him anymore, but I know I can't.

    "I need to go." he says abruptly, standing and taking his violin case. "It's been nice talking to you."

    No, no, no. This can't be happening. He's going to leave me again, just like he left for Europe and like he left the night in the Explorer and like he leaves me every time we meet. "Here--" I sputter, without thinking. "My phone number, take my phone number."

    Craig glances down. "I never got rid of it."

    As he walks out the double doors of the concert hall, he looks back at me, the bitterest smile barely twisting his lips.

    My heart races.

    He's gone as fast as I saw him. The janitors are coming in and telling me I have to go, so I pick up my little black clutch and slide my feet into my heels and leave.

    I step outside into the chill of the misty night and notice he's nowhere around. It almost breaks my heart. I keep walking under the black evening sky. It's the same color as his hair, cool and comforting.

    He's nowhere around, and I begin to think of a night that, like this, rings with a bittersweetness. It was about a year and a half ago, when Craig was auditioning for the principal violin seat in the Chicago Symphony. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he worked for months on that music.

    I remember the night he came to me near tears, violin in hand and heartbroken. I asked him what was wrong, and his voice quaked. He hadn't gotten the seat. He wanted to quit his music forever.

    He slept on my couch that night, too drunk on sorrow and anger to go home safely. Craig was so broken after that incident that he left for Europe without warning.

    When he returned, his violin playing was beautiful, and he immediately booked a guest seat at the Chicago Symphony. That guest seat was tonight.

    It's almost the same as that night from so long ago. He began pained and scared, and as he left, he shot me a smile. Either he likes me, or he's drunk. Maybe both.

    Somehow, by some twist in my head, I find myself spinning down the empty street to a song that's only in my mind. I picture Craig playing it, his fingers poised on the bow as he slides it across the taut strings of the violin. I turn and turn and turn to the sweet melody of Bach's Double Violin Concerto, intoxicated by its beauty and Craig's.

    I dance all the way to my apartment, the night music more beautiful than anything I've ever heard. Craig is home, and when he is home, I am home.

    oOo

    The ringing of my cell phone wakes me in the morning. I hear the opening melody of Mozart's Horn Concerto and slide it open, finding a text message from Craig. He's telling me good morning, and this makes me smile more than I think I ever have. I text him back and tell him the same, then close my phone.

    Come to my place? is his reply.

    Of course. I answer, then hurry out of bed and make myself look as pretty as possible for nine o'clock on a Saturday morning.

    I walk to his apartment, which is about two blocks away from mine, and ring the doorbell. He opens the door within a few seconds, and I am amazed by the sight, to say the least.

    He wears only a pair of black athletic shorts. That's it. No shirt. No jacket. Nothing but some damn lucky black athletic shorts.

    "Come in," he smiles, his voice a bit raspy with the breaking morning. His lips are chapped, I notice, not that it matters. He got toned and tanned in Europe--the lower half of his chest is carved with muscle. It's all I can do not to swoon.

    I enter and take a seat on his couch, a ratty old thing the color of a muddy road, and he sits down next to me. "Coffee?" he asks. "It's not so good, but--"

    "No, thanks."

    He nods slowly. "I wanted to play something for you, just something I'm working on. Will you listen?"

    My eyes must widen or something, because he starts to laugh. "I guess that's a yes, huh?"

    "Yeah! Oh my God, yes!" I grin, and sit back in the couch.

    "Alright." He picks his violin and bow up from the coffee table where they're lying. With an expert skill, he balances the instrument between his chin and shoulder, then puts his fingers on the bow and takes a deep breath. "It's not really titled yet."

    I wait for him to play, and he glances at me, pausing for a moment. "Thanks for coming over." he says softly, then puts the bow against the strings. As he draws the horsehair bow across the strings, a major chord resonates in the room. It's beautiful, of the purest quality.

    The melody, a sweet, rhythmic line, begins, and I am enthralled by the sound. There's a twinge of sadness in the music, but it picks up, and it's as though someone transposed a dream into the key of E-flat.

    With a final forte-piano crescendo, the piece ends. Craig looks for my reaction. I have none, because I am speechless.

    He asks me if I like it, and I nod.

    "Good," he says, "I wrote it for you."

    "What?"

    He shoots me that intoxicating half-smile. "I wrote it for you."

    "Really?"

    His face softens. "Would I lie to you?"

    In this moment, I break. Some part of me breaks, and I don't know what it is or why it happens, I just know it does. And part of me wants to take Craig and beat him with that damn bow for wasting his time writing a song about me, but part of me wants to fall into his arms and kiss him like I used to. I don't know how to react except to fall silent.

    "Kaye?" he asks. "You alright?"

    I nod, hoping that he doesn't realize how big of a deal this really is. "Craig, it was beautiful, really. I honestly can't believe it."

    He puts the violin gently down on the coffee table and sits down next to me on the couch. "I couldn't stop thinking about everything we talked about last night. I woke up at, like, two in the morning with this melody in my head, and I just--I had to play it, I couldn't not play it."

    "I think it's some of your best work." I whisper, drawn in by the pure sincerity of those gorgeous eyes.

    He's quiet, so quiet. But he opens his mouth and I break again. "Your eyes look really beautiful in this light, you know? They're so green. It's like a little rainforest in each one."

    Craig smiles again, and I don't know what to say. So I look toward him and breathe in really deep and he cups my chin, and before I know it, the Fantasy Overture from Romeo and Juliet is playing in my head. His thin fingers get tangled in my hair and we're kissing like mad, body on body and lips on lips. We end up outstretched on the couch, and Craig nuzzles my neck and breathes rhythmically.

    I feel his lips press against the skin on my collarbone, and then he laughs. "Sorry about not having a shirt on or anything."

    Breathless, I reply, "I think we've found that that's not much of a problem."

    He traces circles with his fingers underneath the little black t-shirt I'm wearing, and it's like old times. I feel so safe here with him, so warm in his arms. He's as familiar as Beethoven's Fifth to me.

    The smell of his cologne soothes me. All the stresses and worries I had before right now are gone. I fall asleep, pressed against his chest, Craig's hands resting on my waist.

    oOo

    "Kaye..."

    He murmurs my name, and I'm praying that it doesn't mean he wants to get rid of me. I open my eyes and he smiles down at me, running his fingers through my hair. I breathe.

    "You tired, babe?" he gives a little chuckle. "Have a wild night?"

    I laugh. "Yeah, for sure." I stretch, sitting up and putting my hands on the muscle of his abdomen. "Do you really think you've changed?" I murmur, knowing it's a bit abrupt to be saying.

    He, too, sits up. "I...yeah, I think I have."

    I shake my head. "Craig, you don't seem any different. You're still the most amazing guy I've ever met, and you're just...wonderful. And I don't think you've changed."

    His eyes are pensive. "Maybe you've changed, too. Maybe we changed together."

    "What?"

    "You're so different now, Kaye. Yeah, you're still beautiful--I mean, there's no way you couldn't be. But you're so much more mature, and...Christ, Kaye, you're perfect."

    I know I could tell him how much that means to me, but he'd never understand what a big deal it is. He'd never know how beautiful it makes me feel. So I lean into him and kiss him again, and promise him I'll never ever leave.

    oOo

    A week comes and goes, and Craig's got another concert at the Chicago Symphony guesting. I'm in the audience, of course, front row, center. And he stands to play his solo--my song--and he smiles at me, and I begin to realize things.

    I realize his trip to Europe was for himself, and that girl--whichever damn lucky European girl it was that broke his heart--is in the past.

    I realize that he loves me, and I love him. There are no questions, only answers. I love you. You're perfect. I've always thought you were beautiful.

    I realize it's always been the music. My French horn. His violin. Our shared love of obscure classical concertos.

    I realize that, maybe, little by little, we all change. And those changes make us better. Stronger.

    The song slows a little, that final beautiful ending coming on. I feel myself beginning to cry, and I look up at him, and he shakes his head. "Don't cry." he mouths to me. "It's a happy song."

    His eyes close, and my eyes close, and we're connected by a stream of music and love. He crescendoes, poco a poco, and I finally believe.