The bell sounded, indicating the end of the second break. It felt like the announcement of impending doom for me, but before I could find some kind of lame excuse to stay in the hall Doug already pulled me to the entrance, giggling excitedly. He was in heaven, whereas I was in hell. Even though I had never heard of Mr. Schoenberg before Doug seemed to be in nerdvana, jabbering about oh-so-exciting historical facts and anecdotes from his life. I suddenly got wary about the whole Schoenberg thing, since he hadn't talked that much about any of the other compositions, but I had to admit that I tended to be paranoid after his last escapades.
We took our seats, the lights went down, and then...
Noise. Another aeon of despair and torture unfolded before me, this time intensified by the heartbreaking abuse of one of Lord Byron's poems that a burly, grey haired man stammered between a cacophony of violated violins and pianos. My stomach clenched, followed by a wave of nausea and a jabbing pain in my gut. This was not good at all, and for once I didn't blame it on the music, or the sparkling wine.
Leaning over to Doug I mumbled, "I think that last oyster was spoiled, I need to go. Can you take me home?"
Doug didn't react, his gaze transfixed at the stage, a drunk smile on his face.
"Doug, I'm dying here. Take me home!" I repeated, hissing when my guts tried to crawl up my gullet.
"He's fabulous, isn't he?"
This time I followed his glassy eyes, and for a second I forgot my rebellious intestines. In the first row of the orchestra sat John the shags-my-boyfriend-violinist, brows knitted together in concentration, flaxen hair flying wildly every time he swung his violin bow, and damn him, he did look gorgeous! The top buttons of his white suit shirt were undone, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up just enough to show his lean wrists, his lithe body moving sensously to the sweet purr of his instrument...
The world spun, and the combined pain of cramping innards and a broken heart stole my breath. "Doug..." I began, then gritted my teeth and left my seat, wishing I would have had the guts to just vomit into the face of my boyfriend. He would have deserved it.
I stumbled into the empty hall, one arm wound around my raging stomach, sweating like a pig. My steps gave off an eerie echo when I ran for the restrooms, sounding like a scene from 'The Shining', not unlike the music I had been treated to minutes before. I was glad that everyone else seemed to be enthralled by the concert since my retching and heaving must have been heard throughout the entrance hall.
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