The musicians were two women from Arizona. A pretty, plump woman in her mid-twenties held a beautiful, shiny violin. The other was a tall, skinny girl with glasses. Her cello looked old, with spots and cracks, although she handled it with no less gentleness than the violinist.As I said, classical music, especially chamber music, is not something I prefer to listen to. Thus my expectations for this concert were pretty modest. But even chamber music aficionados like Laksh were overwhelmed.Both musicians were extraordinarily skillful. Even I could hear the technical brilliance performed seemingly without effort. But the emotional impact was beyond mere skill.The two instruments alternated leads. When the violinist played, the cello formed a lovely companion. Sometimes almost blending into a background, sometimes playfully paralleling the violin line, and at other times supporting it so the violin sounded richer and louder. It was very very pretty.But when the cello came to the front, it. My sexual response to fucking Bob had been the confirming exclamation point if I ever needed one.When I walked into the office Monday morning, I didn’t know if I had consciously made a definitive decision in my mind. I dressed for work like I almost always did: conservative blouse, knee-length skirt, pantyhose, bra and panties (not necessarily matched), and low-heeled shoes. I greeted those who were already in the office as I always did. Nothing outwardly could have seemed different that morning. Inwardly, though, it was as if I was moving on some kind of cruise control. I don’t know that I could have even verified that I saw all the traffic lights or stop signs along my route from home.It was the same as I entered my workstation, dropped my purse and lunch, turned the computer on, took my phone off automatic messaging, leaned over the back edge and started the copier and printer. Then, without a thought I was in the doorway of Bob’s office, softly rapping on the open.
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