Being the only male in a group of beautiful women wearing tights should be heaven. It isn't.
I play piano for a dance troupe. My hands know the music by heart, so there's no need to look down. Instead, I watch the group dance. It's pure torture, of course. None of them ever notice me. I'm just background noise, filling up the air until the rehearsal ends and their boyfriends come and steal them from me. I guess I'm lucky to be in the same room, but it's like drowning with land in sight. I can see what I want, imagine myself there, but I know in my heart of hearts it's hopeless.
The rehearsal ends, and the girls gather up their things. No one says anything to me as they head out of the studio. Why would they?
But you linger a little. You seem distracted, a little sad. Your cell phone rings, and you have to rustle around in your gym bag to find it. I'm not trying to listen, but I know who you're talking to. It's your boyfriend, a guy ten years younger than I with washboard abs and the intellectual depth of an eggplant. I've seen him pick you up many times, always in a hurry, never early enough to watch you dance. He sickens me.
I can tell by the phone call that he is being his usual self. You are arguing about something.... no, you are apparently *continuing* the argument you've been having about something. He's angry that you don't trust him and you are reminding him of the things he has done to forsake your trust. I'm hardly a ladies man, but I've been around long enough to know that this is an argument he cannot win. Johnny Cochran couldn't win that argument.
You hang up on him. It's not as satisfying as slamming down the receiver, but the beep when you terminate the call is Mozart to me.
You turn and notice I'm still here. I look down, shuffling through my sheet music.
"Could you give me a ride?" you ask.
I know I'm the only person left, but I look around to make sure you're actually talking to me.
"My ride bailed on me," you say grimly.
"Uh.... " I stammer like an idiot. "Sure. I'd be happy to."
"Thanks," you say, gathering up your bag. I try to get my music organized, but my fingers aren't cooperating. You are so close to me, leaning on the piano. In my mind, you are reclining on a beautiful grand piano, shiny and black, even though this is a cheap upright.
"Not a problem," I say, silently cursing the uncooperative papers.
"Why are guys such assholes?" you ask. I'm not sure whether that's a rhetorical question. I look in your eyes and see that you actually want an answer.
"Guys aren't assholes," I say. "The meatheads you date are assholes." I know I shouldn't have said it, but I'm glad I did.
