ice cream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluedreaming) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
writetomyheart2015-08-11 03:07 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-08-11 03:07 pm
[team sonic] the moment before
First word from here.
Title from Do It Again by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part two of the inevitable end, preceded by beacon when I'm gone and followed by waiting in the dark.
Ages. That's what it feels like, the empty seat beside her, the darkness as the house lights dim and the conductor walks in to the applause of the audience, the orchestra standing and the concert master shaking the conductor's hand.
That used to be him, before.
And then even when he couldn't, he was sitting here, next to her, watching and listening and making small comments, pointing out the inflection in the notes, the pause before the crescendo. The music is flat, now that he's gone.
The scarf that he gave her for her last birthday doesn't keep the cold at bay, and by the second act there are traitorous tears on her face; it's so frustrating, to feel herself fall apart like this, but here, these seats, this hushed darkness, music and song filling the space, this was theirs.
And now it's only her.
The audience surges to their feet, act two is over and it's on to the intermission as Tilda quietly slides away, past grins, applauding hands and general merriment, and slips into her car.
The driver looks at her, concerned at being called out before the opera is over, but Tilda isn't in the mood for talking this evening. She sinks back into the seat, neck leaning over the headrest at a punishing angle as she watches the lights of the city redshift away in the dark.
Title from Do It Again by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part two of the inevitable end, preceded by beacon when I'm gone and followed by waiting in the dark.
Ages. That's what it feels like, the empty seat beside her, the darkness as the house lights dim and the conductor walks in to the applause of the audience, the orchestra standing and the concert master shaking the conductor's hand.
That used to be him, before.
And then even when he couldn't, he was sitting here, next to her, watching and listening and making small comments, pointing out the inflection in the notes, the pause before the crescendo. The music is flat, now that he's gone.
The scarf that he gave her for her last birthday doesn't keep the cold at bay, and by the second act there are traitorous tears on her face; it's so frustrating, to feel herself fall apart like this, but here, these seats, this hushed darkness, music and song filling the space, this was theirs.
And now it's only her.
The audience surges to their feet, act two is over and it's on to the intermission as Tilda quietly slides away, past grins, applauding hands and general merriment, and slips into her car.
The driver looks at her, concerned at being called out before the opera is over, but Tilda isn't in the mood for talking this evening. She sinks back into the seat, neck leaning over the headrest at a punishing angle as she watches the lights of the city redshift away in the dark.