No, It Was The Symphony

“Remember that night we went to the theatre in the snow?” Abigail asked before popping a shrimp in her mouth.

“No, it was the symphony,” I replied, then looked round at Tom and Jill. “You’re getting it mixed up. The theatre was in the rain. That car splashed a puddle on your dress when it rounded the corner. Range Rover, if I recall.”

“No, it was an Escalade, and I didn’t wear a dress to the symphony. I wore the white wool pants with my turquoise silk sweater. I was furious about the puddle splashing my pants.”

I nodded and took a healthy swig of my beer. “Yes, you were. One of your more colorful insults was born of it.”

Abigail nodded and sipped her whiskey. “That’s right! My feet were drenched, and I called him a mouth-breathing, tax-evading, raggedy-ass apocalypse rat.”

“No, you were much more colorful than that. If I recall, the poor sot was referred to as a wannabe frat boy who probably thought picking his nose counted as an hors d’ouvre at cocktail hour, which you further presumed he observed at half-ten every morning.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t the theatre, the rain? I don’t think I would forget ‘symphony in the snow.’ It’s much more poetic than ‘theatre in the snow,’ and there was nothing poetic about that night.” Abigail lifted her water glass to her lips and briefly kissed the surface before returning to her whiskey.

“That’s my Abby, always looking for poetry in the world. That’s why I get dragged to the theatre and the symphony as well as the art museums. But never a poetry reading. She says too much poetry is obsessed with end-rhyme and that it kills it for her.”

“Anyway,” Abigail said, “the symphony was in the rain. I wore my grey Calvin Klein with the red suede jacket under the full-length purple wool coat with my black boots to the theatre, when it snowed.”

Tom raised a hand briefly to call the waiter over, then said, “Does it matter whether it was the symphony or theatre? And what else happened the night it snowed?”

Jill placed her hand on Tom’s arm and said, “Hush and let them tell the story!”

The waiter came over, and Tom ordered another round for the table and asked if anyone else would eat some fries if he ordered some. I told him he could count on me.

“The night we were uptown for a non-ballet performance at the Blumenthal, it snowed,” Abigail continued.

“Are you sure it wasn’t the Knight Theatre? Down by the Mint Museum?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m certain. We parked in the 6th Street garage and had a drink at The Dunhill before the show,” Abigail insisted.

“I think we had a drink at Bernardin’s. You had that drink with a flower in it and thought the bartender was pretentious.” Abigail is always getting restaurants and shows mixed up.

“No, it was The Dunhill because the bartender validated our parking.” Abigail was adamant.

The waiter came back to the table with fresh beers for Tom and me, a whiskey for Abigail, and a margarita for Jill. We all drained our last round and let him take the empty glasses. Abigail hates a cluttered table.

The bar was filling up, and a young couple who appeared to be on their first date sat down at the table next to ours, and we all smiled at how cute and nervous they were. Maybe ten years from now, they’d be correcting each other about tonight.

Jill said she needed to go to the ladies’ room, and Abigail said she’d go, too. The waiter brought the fries while they were gone, and Tom and I tore into them after drowning them in malt vinegar.

“You know, I used to wonder what women talk about in the restroom,” Tom said between bites, “but I decided a long time ago that sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.”

I laughed and took another sip of my beer and noticed that I was making short work of it. I caught the waiter’s eye and raised my glass.

When Jill and Abigail returned, Tom jumped right back on the snow story.

Abigail took the straw in her water glass and used it as a dropper to add a splash to her whiskey, then swirled the glass on the table a few times.

“We saw Wicked. I remember seeing a lot of poison green dresses in the audience and questioning my own outfit.”

“Are you sure? I thought the flying monkeys were the night it rained.”

The waiter slid my fresh beer onto the table and disappeared into the crowd, which was getting louder. A postseason baseball game was on the television, and most everyone was following it, so there were intermittent cheers and boos.

“How did they pull off the flying monkeys onstage?” Jill asked.

“Harnesses and wires. It was impressive,” I answered. “But I think it was at the Knight.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Abigail admonished. “The Knight is off-Broadway. The Belk is Broadway. It’s simply not possible to see a Broadway show in an off-Broadway venue.”

“Abby, the Knight seats 1200 people. It’s not an off-Broadway venue.”

Jill giggled into her margarita.

“Whatever, Jack. It was definitely at the Belk.”

“Wait a minute,” Tom interjected, “which one was it, Abigail? The Belk or the Blumenthal?”

Jill’s laughter bubbled out of her margarita. “Tom, the Belk is inside the Blumenthal. They’re not different venues.”

I overheard the first date couple talking about what music they listened to, and for a moment, I felt old. I had never heard of any of the bands they appeared to be excited about.

“When we came out to the street after the show, it was snowing, and it had been for some time judging by the way it had piled up on the benches and parked cars. I had my empty cup from my drink during the show, and I scooped snow into it until it was full, and the bartender made me a Bailey’s sno-cone. It was divine.”

“I thought the sno-cone was after the symphony. I could still hear the cellos when we sat down at the bar.” I reflected back and saw Abby in her purple coat, sliding the plastic cup along the bench slats to scoop it up. When she looked up at me and smiled, there were snowflakes spangled to her eyelashes.

When I mentioned it, Abby said that I proved her point by remembering the purple coat she hadn’t worn to the symphony.