A woman of Scandinavian descent wilted in her chair, and he was overwhelmed by a rush of heat and the scent of honeysuckle. Of course he whispered an encouraging come-on into her tiny ear, and she revived at once, her face becoming flushed as she looked away.
And the show went on, and the poisoned darts flew, and the knife twisted, and the noose tightened, and the damp palms of lovers united, and a fat man sat on his hands, and at the whim of the cello we bit down upon our lips to suppress the thought of an impossible creature ambling in enormous blue shoes across the newly hedged lawns of an unfamiliar town. And then there was his voice, like a beaten bureau desk of fine craftsmanship, dutifully polished each week for half a century.
During the encore, as the audience edged forward in velvet chairs, she leaned into me and said, It’s in my car, and if not, we can go to my house. Of course I had no idea what she meant.
