First Chair
Two women. One chair. The maestro has a decision to make.
Despite being in an immense rehearsal space, our chairs are mere inches apart. Of course, accidental touches can happen. Except my leg kisses hers on purpose. She casts a side eye, but says nothing. And so, I sit with wood resting on my thigh. My hand wraps around its neck. The curve grazes my breast. After decades together, I no longer know where I end and the violin begins. Oops, another brush from my leg. I glance to m...
