Dear Gianna,

Yes, I suppose this is a sort of “dear Gianna” letter, except that there’s no “other woman” involved.  I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, but there was never time, or you were never there when there was.  I suppose that comes around to the same thing.

I’m really not in this relationship anymore.  In fact, to be totally honest, I wonder how I got swept into it.  but I do remember, “swept” was the word.

I won’t exactly blame Gareth for offering me that concert ticket.  I suppose I was bored enough to go listen to classical music, and counting on him and Joanna to explain the whole thing.  If I was inclined to ask.

I remember seeing this woman with curly black black hair come onstage and pounce on this orchestra and just do a sort of Tasmanian Devil on the stand.  (Sorry.  You keep telling me.  Podium.)  Crouches, lunges, jumps, sweeps.  And all of that apparently making that music.  I came out of the hall suddenly feeling that classical music was something kind of powerful.  Now I’m sure it wasn’t the music.  You played enough of it over and over when you were home for me to understand that.

Then we went to that lounge afterward for a drink, and there you were, talking with some of those guys in monkey suits.  And that’s where I began to be really swept.  All that lively talk and jokes, even the ones I didn’t understand.  And inviting us in on them.

And that first time in bed.  That was the real final sweep.  I remember you told me about Shopan calling a girl’s machinery a “D-flat major”.  I still don’t know what that’s about.  But I remember you were a major turn-on.

Then it sort of started to fade.  I couldn’t get all this stuff about engagements and concert programs and soloists and all that.  And I’d go off to do my consulting, but I’d only be gone three days max, and you’d be gone three weeks or so, with your “guesting” or whatever.

Hustling me off to Des Moines while you did what you called your “triangle” with Reno and Colorado Springs both helped and hurt.  Frankly, I thought things were fine in Richmond.  But with you fussing about being only an assistant, wanting to move up, I couldn’t get a word in.  And I never followed that stuff about “auditioning someone behind a screen”.  So off we moved, to where we could feel like we were part of a vegetable garden.

You being there more often really didn’t help, after all  All that talk about “contemporary” this and “festival” that and “commissions” of whatnot just made me feel more left out.

And to be honest, the sex was exhausting me.  I suppose I should have been glad that you were away, but it was like missing sports training, I guess.  I think you need an orchestra’s worth of men.  Minus the monkey suits.  I can’t imagine that even you would find them a turn-on.

All of this really became clear to me about a year ago, when I realized I didn’t miss you during that week you spent in yet another new city, busting ass to get that big new job.  I was fine without you.  And I think it’s obvious to both of us, I’m just not cut out to be the partner of a mystra.

I’m sorry if you find my way of doing things cowardly, but it just seemed better.  You’re coming here to a new life, so maybe you’ll have a new man as well.

I hope you like the way set up your new place here.  I gave it a good try.  Good luck and plenty of success in the new job, honcho conductor person.

Allan

*

Maude Larke