I Know The Score

The lines of music sit on the page in front of her, the notes jumping up and down. Up and down. Three Movements (For Jack Brymer and Henry Bronkhurst) written in 1955 by Norman Fulton. The notes jump, the key signature is C major, no sharps, no flats. The time signature is three crotchets to the bar, a waltz, of sorts. A waltz. She stands still, while he walks around her. He tries to catch her eye, while she doesn’t know what to do. She gives no clues, and even if he tries to reach and touch her, the waltz (of sorts) is on. The notes rise and fall, poco a poco crescendo. She stands still, while he walks around her.

I know what the score is. I am she, and he is whoever. Insignificant, irrelevant, inconsequential. I know what the score is, and though he thinks he might win, he won’t. Glissando. Poco a poco crescendo. Rallentando. Poco rallentando. Slide. Gradually get louder. Slow down. Gradually slow down. It’s all like fucking. But the sharps and flats and syncopations make it dirty fucking. Not love, not romance, just fucking.

It’s a waltz of sorts. Dip and weave. No touching, though. Never any touching. God forbid that this should become real.

She reads the lines of music on the page in front of her. She remembers those lessons, long ago. Embouchure; mouth on mouthpiece. Breathe from diaphragm; his excuse to touch her belly. Not this him; another. An older, much older, much more dangerous him. Touching her belly in ways inappropriate; telling a sob story to her mother. Years later, an arrest. Years later, a realisation. Touching her belly was inappropriate.

Embouchure, then. Mouth creating a seal. Mouth sealing in kisses hot and fervent. I wish. She wishes. Yesterday she (I) would have been a good lay. Not tonight. Not any night now. Yesterday I (she) was in the right place.

I know the score. I’m no fool. Enlightened self-interest. Take what you can from it. Wring it out. The creative urge, the impulse, the fucking that is not fucking.

It’s not like she (I) hasn’t (haven’t) done this before.

She sits and stares at the Allegretto and the Lento and the Allegro vigoroso. She sits and stares at the signature change from 3/4 to 4/4 and there it remains. A waltz (of sorts) begins this. Common time wins in the end.

Pochissimo rallentando. Tenerezza. Slow down as little as possible. Then tenderness.

She sits and stares at the page in front of her. She (I) knows (know) the score.

It’s like fucking. There is no other word for it.

© J R Hargreaves 2006