I was bored out of my mind. I was literally dying amidst the buzzing of twohundred people blabbering about atonal noise they dared call "compositions of the Second Viennese School". Death by cultural overload, or by fatal dose of canapés. The taste of my last culinaric adventure into French cuisine still stuck to my molars like salty, squishy gum. The oyster had resisted every attempt to flush it down with sparkling wine, giving off a slightly rotten flavour every time I stopped drinking for a few minutes. It was the reason why I sipped at my fifth glass of booze, and since I didn't drink alcohol normally, I was nearly at a point where I ceased caring about what people might think of me if I voiced my opinion about "dodecaphony", French appetisers and people who ooh-ed and aaah-ed at crap like that.
"Oh my god!" Doug exclaimed behind me, making me jump just a little. "They're gonna do 'Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte' by Arnold Schoenberg next, you'll love that one!"
I must have looked pretty unimpressed, because he linked arms with me and gave me his damned-to-hell puppy eyes. "You'll like it, I promise! It's a setting based on the poem by Lord Byron, very emotional. You love his poems, don't you?"
I gritted my teeth and felt the chunk of dead oyster squish and flood my taste buds with another wave of nauseating lukewarm saltwater flavor. My stomach churned disapprovingly, but I had the decency to nod at his question. Yes I did like Lord Byron, but I could have done without the music.
The only reason I tortured myself with a whole evening of classical music was Doug, my boyfriend. He was a musicology major in the middle of writing his M.A. paper, and I hated him as much as I loved him.
Two weeks ago I had come home to the moans and groans of two rutting males, none of them being me. They hadn't heard the loud bang of the door. They hadn't even heard me calling angrily "Honey, I'm home!". It had been the third time I had surprised my alleged boyfriend with John, and all I had felt had been intense distaste.
I had broken up with him when he finally had noticed my presence.
Yesterday he had knocked on my door, apologising over and over. He had even brought roses, and two tickets to a classical concert. Damn his puppy eyes. We had had great make up sex, and now I was here, surrounded by people I didn't know, having the poor dead oyster form a tight knot in my stomach, and feeling totally out of place.
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