Afternoon Rehearsal
“From measure...161 please. Just winds, no brass this time,” Gretchen tells the symphony, studying the score.
I give a heavy sigh and lean back into my chair. My back should be put on exhibition in a museum if crumbling ruins are so admired. My eyes desperately flicker open and shut, teasing sleep. Gretchen’s instructions and the sounds of winds struggling to stay together swirl into one dizzying wave. I glance at my watch and feel a whimper bubble up on my tongue.
I scan the violin section, my sight landing on a friend. He’s sitting with adequate posture and is listening with rapt attention to the numerous “one last time”s from the conductor. Looking back over my shoulder, I make eye contact with a fellow cellist. She makes a face at me.
“Alright, add the brass again. And strings!” Gretchen shouts. Tired, wispy sighs trickle throughout the room. Bodies shift against metal chairs as we brave the fatigue. Squaring my shoulders, I position the tip of my bow on the string.
