Chapter 2Forty minutes in, and the ribald recital was still going on. The musical euphemisms—s****l symphony, coital cantata, fortissimo fuckers in the key of A-major, as in A-major pain in the arse—they could all be attributed to Lawrence. Lawrence was a music teacher at the academy where Warwick was still on staff as head administrator to the dean of students. Their common workplace was the last and one of the biggest reminders of the life they’d shared.
On more than one occasion, Warwick’s lover had compared s*x to a musical composition, sometimes in the throes of it.
“The introduction,” Lawrence mused their very first time, “is the initiation, a look across the room or the brush of a hand that says, ‘Hey, guess what I’m thinking.’ The first verse is kissing, the second petting and fo
