Adagio For Strings

Adagio For Strings
by M. Newman

“Honey,” she said, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.” I had just walked in the door and had no clue as to what this great surprise could be. All I knew was that the smile on Susan’s pretty face could cheer up a ward full of manic depressives. “This must be a doozy,” I said to myself, knowing my wife’s history of extravagant surprises.
“What is it, babe,” I asked, eagerly, already beginning to share her excitement.
“Well,” she revealed, “we are now Patrons of the New York Philharmonic.”
“What?” I was truly surprised and I think that the volume of my voice rose by several decibels. “Susan, I don’t think we can afford that.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Douglas. It only cost fifteen thousand dollars. Think of it as an investment. Just imagine all the celebrities and power brokers with whom we will come in contact. Aside from the wonderful music that we’ll hear from the best seats, we’ll be invited to all the exclusive receptions for patrons and artists. Think of the friends we’ll make and how this will help your career.”
Although I feigned annoyance, secretly I was thrilled. So what that fifteen thousand dollars was far more than we could afford. We deserved the best and contrary to what they say, the best things in life are not free.

***

The first post-concert cocktail reception was magnificent. With live chamber music in the background, delicious hors d'oeuvres and free-flowing wine and liquor, we knew that we’d joined the ranks of the privileged. Susan, looking beautiful in a revealing little Donna Karan number, was happily mingling with the other guests; flirting provocatively with the biggest of the big machers. Although I spent a bit more time than she sampling the single malt scotch, I did my part, as well, striking up conversations with the luminaries at the bar.

Toward the end of the evening, my eyes met those of a striking young woman across the room. In response to her come-hither smile, I immediately left the bar and approached her. Although her face fell just short of pretty, she was, nevertheless, quite enchanting. Silky black hair cascaded past a graceful, swanlike neck, ending at the midpoint of her erect spine. Her perky little breasts were barely concealed by the tantalizingly low-cut neckline of her black evening gown, a gown that, despite its ankle-length, could not hide the fact that she had impossibly long legs; and when she momentarily turned her back to me in order to greet an acquaintance, I discovered that she had a world-class ass.

“Douglas Miller,” I said, extending my hand when she turned to face me once again.
“I’m so glad to meet you Douglas,” she answered, taking my hand in hers and squeezing ever so slightly. “I’m Holly... Holly Bock.”

I was flustered for a moment by the intense sexual energy that she exuded but I suppose that I recovered before she noticed. “I thought I recognized you,” I said. “You’re the new first violinist. You were wonderful tonight.”

“Why thank you, Douglas,” she said, batting her long eyelashes and flashing an alluring smile. “I’m so glad that you think so.”

I was hooked. I spent the rest of the evening conversing with her, totally blocking Susan from my mind. Each time she touched my arm as we spoke, a thrill rushed down my spine straight to my privates. An intense heat seemed to rush at me from between her legs, telling me that she longed to have me, too. Suddenly, our conversation ended. My throat became dry and my legs turned weak. We gazed into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity then she took my hand, leading me from the reception hall to her dressing room. Turning my head briefly as we left the room, I saw Susan in happy conversation with an inebriated, silver-haired patrician. I did not react when I saw the man’s hand resting on my wife’s cute little butt; I just turned and eagerly followed the violinist to her room.

***

“Douglas, it’s so exciting,” Susan gushed. “In just one evening I’ve become friends with some of the world’s most powerful men and women. We already have dinner dates with two of Wall Street’s foremost money men and their wives.
“Where did you disappear to,” she asked.

She was very impressed when I told her that I’d become friends with the first violinist and she scolded me when I said that I did not plan to see her again. “What are you thinking, darling? That woman is an important person to know. Why, she could open more doors for us than both my financiers combined. I insist that you cultivate a friendship.”

***

Beginning the following week, I joined Holly for lunch at Lincoln Center on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The food was delicious and the conversation was lively. We learned a lot about each other.
“You must have been a very popular girl back home in Indiana,” I said one day.
“No,” she replied, “not really. I never had a boyfriend in high school. I wasn’t very pretty and I spent most of my time practicing my music and playing in the school orchestra.”
“That’s just so hard to believe. I would have thought that those high school boys spent their time begging you for a date; I guess you just weren’t interested, what with your music.”
“Oh, I was interested alright. The music, I think, was just a substitute. I would lie in bed nights dreaming of the sinful things that I would do with some of the popular boys; but try as I might, I could never get them interested in me. I remember having one date. It was a disaster. I don’t remember his name but I recall that he was a fellow member of the school orchestra; a cellist, I believe. He had a pretty bad case of acne and he was painfully shy. I don’t think he said more than five words the entire evening. I didn’t care. After the movie, I convinced him to drive us to the local lover’s lane and the second he pulled into a parking spot, I unzipped his fly and took his dick out of his pants. One hand clutching the shaft, I slowly lowered my head toward his rock-hard erection, my mouth already open, my tongue ready to do its work when he ejaculated onto my face. He was embarrassed and I was enraged. He gave me some tissue and then burnt rubber out of that parking spot.
“We never said another word to each other but when Rhoda, the second violin and probably my only friend in the world informed me a few weeks later that she had a date with the same boy that Friday, I wordlessly grabbed her by the hair with my left hand and proceeded to pummel her face with my right. I was suspended from school for a week and from the orchestra for a month. I’m sure that were I not a superb musician I’d have been banned from the orchestra forever. Rhoda and I became bitter enemies, doing mean things to each other and spreading evil gossip for the rest of our high school careers.”

Most of our lunch dates ended with an urgent trip to her apartment, as we longed to get our hands on each other and make up for the frustration of her lost high school years. Occasionally, we couldn’t wait to get to her place and found some kinky substitute sites in and around the restaurant.

After a time, we stopped meeting at the restaurant. I began going straight to her apartment. It was a luxurious place overlooking Central Park; pretty much what you would expect for the first violinist of the New York Philharmonic. Often, Imani, her roommate, a voluptuous soprano who hailed from Kenya, was there. Imani was on the verge of landing the leading role in a new production of “Carmen” and excitedly related to me all of the details. Although she rarely stayed long, Imani and I managed to develop a fondness for each other.

Once the roommate was gone, Holly and I had each other to ourselves for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes she would play her violin for me. During the first private concert, I, sitting across from her, giggled with delight when halfway through a Vivaldi sonata, she spread her legs, Sharon Stone-style, affording me a birds-eye view of her clean-shaven womanhood. The concert ended abruptly as we succumbed to our basic instincts.

Usually we made love with music in the background. Naturally, an elite musician like Holly owned an incredible sound system. Words can’t possibly describe how it felt for us to come simultaneously during the orgasmic climax of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” Soon, that became our song, resounding over and over through the apartment, mingling with our moans and squeals.

She introduced me to a lot of celebrities and high-placed individuals. We soon became part of the night scene and were often photographed by the paparazzi and written about in the gossip columns. Susan appeared to be okay with it all; her eye was still on the ultimate prize. Besides, she was busy with her own group of heavy hitters.

***

Eventually, it began to get a little weird. One morning I reached the apartment a little earlier than usual. She became a little flustered when her bedroom door opened and Imani, just awakening, stumbled out. Imani flashed me a friendly grin and proceeded to her own room but Holly stammered through a convoluted explanation of how they were drinking wine and listening to music last night and Imani, having had a bit too much, fell asleep. “I didn’t have the heart to wake her,” Holly explained, “so I tucked her in and went to sleep in her room.” As if I cared.

As days went by, I began to get the impression that Imani was coming on to me. It was nothing overt; an enticing smile or a tender touch to my face, usually when Holly wasn’t paying attention. She began staying longer, leaving only when Holly reminded her that she would be late for rehearsal. Her intentions gradually became more obvious, though, and when she jokingly asked Holly, “don’t you think it would be fun if we both took him to bed one time,” Holly did not take it as a joke. I thought that she would kill her.

The next time I came, Imani was not there. “Where’s your roommate,” I asked, cautiously.
“Oh, she doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Why? What happened?”
“She was beginning to annoy me,” Holly said with an evil smile. “So I put a couple of drops of muriatic acid into her coffee. You should have seen that bitch’s face when she swallowed; I thought I would never stop laughing. She’ll be okay but she won’t be able to sing for awhile. Somehow she figured out what I had done and she left in a huff. I don’t think she’ll ever return.”

****

I was beginning to lose interest in the romance. Holly may have been a sex goddess who could enflame me with desire with a single look or touch but I missed my wife. The truth is, I was tired of the social climbing and I was tired of the craziness that had crept into the affair; and Susan after all, was my true love. I hoped it wasn’t too late. I’m sure that Susan knew that I was fucking Holly although she continued to encourage the relationship for its potential benefits. I’m also pretty sure that she was having an affair of her own with one of her high-powered Wall Streeters; but I was hoping to salvage our marriage.

That afternoon, at her apartment, I told Holly that it was over. “I still love my wife,” I said, “and although our time together was beyond incredible, its time to break it off.”
For several minutes she just stared at me with a look that I would not describe exactly as hatred. Finally she simply said, “get out.”

****

Susan broke her date that evening and we spent the night repairing our relationship; discussing our feelings, making love and vowing everlasting devotion. We planned a romantic trip to Europe for the end of the month, sort of a second honeymoon, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Next morning, an unusually bright and pleasant one, I took a brisk walk down Fifth Avenue to a travel agent near Rockefeller Center and booked that European cruise. On the way home, whistling a happy tune, I stopped at a jewelry store and picked out a lovely diamond pendant as a token of our renewed love.

The moment I walked through our door, I knew that something was wrong. The familiar notes of “Adagio For Strings” filled the apartment. That was not a tune we’d ever listened to together.
“Susan,” I called, nervously. “Susan, where are you?”
No answer.
“Susan, answer me,” I persisted.
Still no answer.
I walked through the living room and into the bedroom and found my darling wife sprawled face down on the bed, her head tilted in an unnatural position, a violin string wrapped around her bloody neck. I didn’t need to check for a pulse to know that she was dead.

As the adagio neared its climax, Holly entered the room, an insane look in her eyes and a gun in her hand.
“If I can’t have you, neither can she,” she declared.
She raised her gun hand, smiled crazily, and just as the music culminated in a wild frenzy, she turned the weapon on herself, laughing wildly as the bullet exploded into her brain.