Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I’m dragged out of my thoughts as an elderly woman with cat-eye glasses wrapped in a fur coat walks in front of us, taking a spot ahead of us in the line.
I lean into Maddox’s ear and speak softly. “Did that woman just cut us?”
He tears his gaze from me and turns his head. The old woman is chatting pleasantly with the couple in front of us.
“Maybe they were holding a spot for her,” I say.
“Or maybe the old bat is trying to pull a fast one on us.” Maddox clears his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. Did these people hold a spot for you?”
The old woman narrows her eyes at Maddox. “Sorry, dear. What was that?”
“He’s asking you if you just cut in front of us,” I say.
Maddox taps the gentleman in front of us on the shoulder. “Do you know this woman? She seemed to be talking with you.”
The guy in front of us frowns. “No, sir. She was just asking if we enjoyed the Beethoven.”
“So you didn’t save her a spot in line then?” Maddox asks.
The gentleman shakes his head.
Maddox turns his focus back to the elderly woman. “Then, ma’am, let me show you to the end of the line.”
“Is that really necessary?” The old woman asks. “Intermission is nearly over. What difference does it make if I’m in front of you?”
“The difference is that if you wanted this spot in line, you should have gotten up here faster.” Maddox points to the back of the line. “Now, before I have to flag down an usher.”
The old woman scowls at Maddox. “Back in my day, fellows like you used to act like gentlemen.”
“I will act like a gentleman if you act like a lady, ma’am,” Maddox says. “Do I have to escort you to the back of the line myself?”
She sneers. “You wouldn’t even be at this symphony tonight if it weren’t for me and my husband, young man! We’re high-tier donors, you know.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Sweden. You can wait at the back of the line, lady.”
The old lady sputters at Maddox for a moment before finally leaving the line entirely and disappearing into the ladies’ room.
I grab Maddox’s hand. “My hero!”
He smirks. “Hardly. It’s not like she was much of a physical threat.”
“Either way, a lot of people would have just let her take their spot. That’s clearly what she was hoping would happen.” I stand on my tiptoes and kiss Maddox on the mouth. “But you’re not like most men.”
“Just figuring that out now, are you?” He brushes my cheek with his finger.
The couple in front of us leaves and we step up to the snack bar.
“One brownie,” Maddox says.
The woman standing behind the bar smiles. “Y’all are lucky. This is our last brownie of the evening.”
“Well, there you go.” I squeeze Maddox’s shoulder. “Had you not intervened, that old lady might have snagged the last brownie.”
Maddox chuckles. He pays for the brownie and hands it to me.
I take a bite and relish the rich fudgy treat.
I almost never have sweets, so when I do indulge, I always make sure to enjoy them.
“Would you like a bite?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m good. But”—he rubs the corner of my mouth with his thumb—“you have a little chocolate here.”
“Oh, goodness.” I grab the napkin and wipe my mouth. “You must think I’m perfectly disgusting.”
He laughs at that. “Hardly.”
I finish the rest of the brownie, taking care to get all of it in my mouth, and then check my watch. “Intermission is about to finish. We’d better take our seats for the Shostakovich.”
Maddox gestures toward the entrance to the concert hall. “After you, my fudgy princess.”
“Oh, shut it.”
We return to the concert hall and take our seats right as the lights are dimming. The orchestra tunes again, and the conductor comes back onstage. The audience breaks into uproarious applause again, and he turns to the orchestra and gestures for them all to take a stand. The applause continues, and then the conductor takes the podium and the symphony begins.
Dmitri Shostakovich’s eleventh symphony is a completely different composition from the Beethoven. While the Beethoven began with regal majesty and ended with joyful triumph, the Shostakovich opens with a barren hum of desolation from the strings—depicting the silence that occurs immediately after a small town has been ripped apart by war. The timpani interjects every so often with muted passages, and then a solo trumpet blares out a mournful melody. The music is tranquil, but not peaceful—there is an edge of tension to its entirety.
The second movement is full of jagged bursts of sound from the strings and brass, mimicking gunfire and political tumult. It’s brutal, mechanical, and relentless, a musical massacre. The following movement is a rising dirge heavy with grief and resignation, an English horn rising above the rest of the music as a memorial to the fallen.