Variations on a Theme

Variations on a Theme1

I only intended to get a drink of water and leave, but the sound of guitars caught my attention, and I stopped to listen. I’ve always loved guitar music, though I don’t play myself. I’m a violinist at heart. I was waiting to perform with the orchestra; I hadn’t known that the guitar ensemble was playing as well.2

Leaning against the white-washed wall, I scanned the room casually for him. For the briefest moment, our eyes met, and then I looked away again. My heartbeat quickened slightly- the image of him leaning over his guitar, was stuck in my head. ‘Beautiful’ I whispered. 3

The song ended and he walked casually out of the room, guitar in hand. I turned to the window but remained aware of his approaching form.4

“Hey sexy,” he said cheerfully5

“hi” I answered, pirouetting to face him. 6

“Hold my guitar for me?”7

I accepted the offered instrument and propped it against my leg, strumming absently. 8

“I’ve always wanted to play guitar,” I commented.9

He looked up from rummaging through his bag. 10

“So why don’t you learn?”11

I smiled, remembering. “I tried, once,” I told him, “it lasted for three months and then I gave up.”12

He flashed me a grin, zipped his bag, and stood, tie in hand, facing the mirror. I watched him struggle with it for a few minutes, then rose, laughing. 13

“You dress formal all the time and can’t tie a tie?” I teased.14

He looked at me askance, and asked, “can you?”15

I nodded. “Watch this.”16

I arranged the tie around his neck and proceeded to tie it, explaining each step and moving slowly, cherishing the chance to stand so close to him.17

When I finished, he thanked me, and started to say something else but was interrupted by his guitar teacher, summoning him for a final run-through before the performance.18

I tuned my violin and walked reluctantly downstairs to sit with the orchestra. From my seat I couldn’t see the guitarists walk on, but the acoustics in the hall were considerably better than the vision was, and I closed my eyes and let the spanish music caress me. 19

While I listened, I reflected absently on my latest love interest. He was the most unlikely choice for a dream guy- I mean, he fit the tall and dark requirements, but- handsome? His dark hair fell in loose curls 5 inches past his shoulders. I generally hate long hair on guys, but it suited him. He had a fairly clear complexion and the shadow of a beard. Besides, he smoked. To kiss a smoker is something that I’ve always thought revolting. And yet, I could so easily imagine our lips meeting.20

He treated me with respect- treated everyone with respect, and I loved him for it. He was his own person, didn’t conform. That was part of what brought us together- we were both different. It showed in the way we dressed, his buttoned shirts and business slacks, my wacky skirts over jeans and oversized men’s shoes. We shared a passion for music and a love for debating and literature. 21

We got into long conversations about life and death and religion and moral issues. He was open about his past because I did not judge him for the mistakes he had made, and his patient listening slowly drew out of me secrets about my life before meeting him. I made everyone else call me Zeke, but I let him use my real name because he let me be the real me, and he made Catherine sound like a name worth having even after I had disliked it for years.22

I would accompany him on lunch breaks and afterschool to the park where he went to smoke. People teased us about it, joked that we were making out in secret, and we ignored them. In reality, the closest we ever got on those smoking breaks was the day he told me that hates himself, that he’s worthless, and I kissed him on the cheek and told him that he meant the world to me. He didn’t even wipe the lipstick off before wrapping his arms around me and saying, “you’re such a free spirit, Catherine, I love that about you.” We walked back to school arm-in-arm. 23

The guitar piece ended and I tightened my bow; the orchestra would perform in several minutes. I wanted more than anything for him to be there, to hear me play, but he was somewhere upstairs packing his guitar away and being congratulated by his teacher.24

“You played well, Erik,” I whispered into the sea of tuning violins. And even knowing that we won’t ever be more than friends, I smiled in the direction of the upstairs room where he was preparing to go home, grateful to be considered a friend of someone so wonderful.25