That Amethyst Jacket

Chapter 2

I could also see the basses from my vantage point.

There was a cute new bass player this year. She had short, curly, dark brown hair with a purple streak going back over her left ear and a very pretty face. She wasn’t tall for a bassist, but looked strong enough to handle it. She also had on the most beautiful amethyst-colored jacket I’d ever seen. It wasn’t bright but soft and relaxing. It matched her hair. It was gorgeous. She scanned the orchestra one time and caught me looking at her. I smiled; she smiled back. Then she turned to the bassist next to her who’d asked a question. That still didn’t stop me from looking and dreaming.

She drove an SUV to rehearsal, of course, so there’d be enough room for her instrument. I held back, waiting for her to get to the stairs. Maybe I could help her, but she hefted her bass up the handicapped ramp and through the self-opening handicapped door. That was smart! I hadn’t even thought of that.

That evening after rehearsal, I saw her loading her bass into her car and stopped to say hello.

“Good rehearsal,” I said.

“Yes, it was,” she replied. “But I’ll never get the Shamenski right. I think you have to have hands the size of baseball mitts to play it right.”

“Yes, we’re very busy during that one, too. It’s very intricate.”

“How many measures does that drum roll go?” she asked. “It seems to go on forever.”

“It’s something like thirty measures. My hands get tired.”

We both chuckled at that.

“Good thing it’s a drum roll!” she said. “Can you imagine holding a trumpet note that long?”

I laughed

“Say, are you hungry? I’m famished. Want to go get something to eat?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’m a little hungry, too.” I couldn’t come right out and tell her what I was really hungry for: her! “Where?”

“I know just the place. Follow me.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

We both got into our cars.

The place she took us to was a small family Italian restaurant on a back street. Dozens of candles, in candle wax-coated wine bottles, lit the room. One candle, in a wide Sangria bottle, had melted wax not only down the bottle, but also on the counter around it. More wax had run down the wall and onto the floor beneath. The entire room reminded me of a stalagmite cave.

We were seated and given menus. The prices were quite reasonable. Before we could order, a waiter brought a bottle of red wine and placed it on the table with two glasses.

My friend poured some into our glasses, and then held hers up to me.

“To a great concert,” she toasted.

I held mine up to her and answered “cheers.”

We both sipped.

“The stuffed shells are the specialty here,” she said. “They’re really good.”

I looked in the menu. Everything sounded good. “All right, I’ll try them.”

She held her hand up. When the waiter came over, she ordered. “Two orders of Shells à la Luis.”

The waiter looked at me with a smile and walked away.

“How did you find this place?” I asked.

“It’s an old family secret,” she answered. “Wait ‘til you taste the food. It’s the best in the city.”

I nodded and took another sip of the wine.

She talked on and on about how her family loved Italian food and all the dishes served here.

Our food arrived, and we dug in.

“This is fabulous,” I said after the first bite.

I began almost shoveling it into my mouth. We looked at each other while we ate, but neither of us tried to initiate a conversation. I finally sat back and looked across the table. I realized she had refilled our wine glasses a couple times. The bottle was empty.

She sat back. Her plate was empty also. “Dessert?”

“If it’s as good as the entrée, I’d love some dessert.”

She held her hand up again and a waiter came right over.

“Is a dessert room open?” she asked.

“Sì, signorina,” the waiter answered. “We always have it ready for you.” He gave us both a big smile. “Room number three.”

She looked at me. “Let’s go upstairs. Dessert is always better up there.”

Upstairs? There was a separate dessert room?

She stood and went into a back room. I followed her. We went up a flight of stairs. There was a long hallway with rows of doors down both sides. She went to the second door on the right and opened it.

“Come on,” she said as she entered the room.

I followed, and she closed the door behind me. It wasn’t what I expected. There was only a queen-sized bed in there, and four or five candles in sconces on the walls lit the room.

“This is dessert?” I asked in awe.

“Yes,” she answered. “You are dessert for me, and I’m dessert for you.” The smile on her face amazed me with its brightness. She started to unbutton my shirt. “You do want to be dessert, don’t you?” She had my shirt open and off my shoulders. She unfastened my bra.

“How can I say no?” I asked.

She pulled her jacket off and unbuttoned her blouse. In a few minutes, we were both stark naked. She held her hand out and backed onto the bed.

“Come.”

She pulled me into an embrace. Her lips took mine as she lured me to the bed. The kiss…oh, what a kiss…was hot and wet; steaming with urgency! Her lips seemed to devour me as she rolled over onto me. Her tongue delved into my mouth as her hands started to rove my body.

Then I felt someone tapping on my arm and shaking it urgently.

Not now, I thought. Definitely not now.

I pulled her onto me, but the shaking didn’t stop.

I finally opened my eyes.

Jim pointed to the music in front of us.

Damn!

I followed his finger as it slid across the music, and I finally reached for the drum sticks.

Someday, I’d have to find out if that bass player really liked Italian food.