The Sydney Saga: Finale

June 19th

Friday evening. We're at The Opera House taking in the Symphony. Stephen Hough is showing Tchaikovsky's 2nd Piano Concerto who's boss. No sheet music, hot damn.

The vigor with which Mr. Hough flips his hair in dynamic emphasis of the composition is initially mesmerizing, but before long, my mind begins to flit from one thought to the next, little of it related to music of any kind. Chris informs me he thankfully snagged several of the courtesy Butter-Menthols [best throat lozenges ever] from the lobby, as they are keeping him awake.

The concerto finishes, Steveo and the conductor take several bows, Steveo does an encore (because, in spite of our Butter-Menthol haze, the crowd has gone wild), and then Chris is up and out in the lobby, coat on.
Surely, he knows it's the interval; after all, I had read out bits from the programme before the start, about how Hugh Wolff's symphony in the second half was described as "loud" (seriously, they might as well have included that it's also "good." Who writes that?!)

Standing outside in the drizzle -- to get some air, I assume -- Chris asks, "What now?"
"There's still another half."
"What...?"
"Yeah, this is just the intermission."

Pause.
A smile slowly starts to form. More of a smirk, really.

"No, come on."
"Serious. 'Member I was reading that bit about the crashy loud section."
"Vaguely..."
"That hasn't happened yet."
"Oh..."
"We don't have to stay; I'm totally fine to go."
"Oh..."

He walks back through the door, over to the bar, and buys a box of Malteazers. To keep him awake, he tells me.

Back in the concert hall, Chris places the box of chocolate on the seat beside him. I do my best not to giggle each time he holds the box up and ever so carefully selects one, as though there was a variety among the lot I wasn't aware of.

***

Outside, the Opera House, we pass a group of beefy American dudes.
"Those trumpets were awesome!"
"I know! Like, they must train like athletes."
"Yeah. Those trumpets were... awesome."

The sound of North American accents bothers me lately when I encounter them in daily life. Not in movies or on the phone, but at restaurants, bars, the market.

It's jarring, all sharp and twangy. I express this to Chris.
"Nah, it's more that it drones, " he replies with a grin.
My "aw, thanks" is accompanied with a punch to the shoulder.

Droney? Perhaps.
Unnecessarily aggressive?
Most definitely.