Didn’t he go through this one before? They were driving back from Meyerhoff Symphony Hall. Seems familiar. She was at the wheel and he was in the passenger seat. That part’s different. Usually he drives. But he had a large vodka martini in the lobby during intermission, so she insisted she drive. “But I said I’m okay,” and she said “Listen to me, Martin,” and he said “Whenever you call me by my name, when it’s not something like ‘Martin, phone call for you,’ I know I’m not going to change your mind. Okay, and I do this most grudgingly,” and he gave her his keys. This took place as they walked to the garage. They didn’t speak again till they pulled onto 83 and she said “So, what did you think?” and he said “Oh, we’re talking? Think about what?” “Did you enjoy yourself tonight? Any particular piece and how it was played? Did you get any good ideas during the concert for the work you’re working on? Did you at least get a good snooze in during part of it or wish you were home reading and drinking or getting ready for bed, but anyplace but in the Meyerhoff? In other words—” and he said “You want the honest truth or just the truth?” “Are you still upset with me for taking away your driving privileges for the evening? All I thought at the time was how dumb it would be to get into an accident or near miss that could have been easily avoided by my driving us home,” and he said “No, you were anxious — probably thought about the kids — so you were right. And the truth? Not about my ability to drink, I mean drive — that was intentional — with one watered-down drink in me, but the concert? The Mahler was bombastic and the Mozart schmaltzy. As for the Elgar. Well, enough with that guy already. He wrote one terrific piece, but I’ve heard it so many times on radio, I’m sick of it.” “So you didn’t like anything of anything? You’ve said you like the slow movements of all the Mahler symphonies and Mozart and Beethoven piano concertos. That’s why I got us tickets for this concert, even though it wasn’t part of our subscription series,” and he said “Oh, what do I know? You play, I just listen,” and she said “You know a lot about classical music, much more than me, and you’ve heard a lot more too. I think your anger’s coming less from my dragging you to a concert you might not have wanted to go to than from my, you thought, indirectly criticizing your drinking. Next time I’ll invite a friend to come with me, instead of having to put up with your puerile crap.” “Wait. ‘Puerile.’ Where’s my dictionary so I can look it up.” “You’re still sounding immature. But I loved the concert. I don’t think I’ve loved one more. The Mahler, almost every part of it, though he’s never been one of my favorites as he has been one of yours. The Elgar, even if I’ve heard it on radio dozens of times, always moves me. And the Mozart, and not just the slow movement, which I thought to be pure heaven. It transported me to a place in my head I’ve never been to before. And you knew I loved the playing of all three compositions — you could tell by my expression during and after each piece and what I told you at intermission about two of them — but you still couldn’t help trying to ruin it for me as fast as you could. You can be a bastard, do you know that?” and started crying. “Are you crying?” and she said “You know I am. Not bawling, just crying. So why ask such a stupid question?” “You’re that angry at me?” and she said “You know I am. Why ask such a stupid second question, as if there was any doubt about it?” “You know,” he said, “we’ve played this scene before. Except I was driving, if I remember — no, I had to be, because I almost always drove when we went someplace together — but it was in the first minivan we had and you were in the seat I’m in now. I was angry at you for something you said — you were probably right, but anyway, I was angry — and you asked me if I was angry and I said ‘What an inane’ or even ‘stupid question; you can see how angry I am.’ And then you said ‘Well, I’m sorry for making you angry and ruining your good time. I apologize.’ and you took my hand off the wheel to kiss it and I pulled it away and said ‘I need two hands to drive.’ Are you still angry at me, Gwen? I’m apologizing,” and she said “Are you still angry at me?” and he said “No,” and she said “Neither am I.” “And actually, I was lying before,” he said. “I did enjoy the concert, especially the Mozart, which I didn’t think schmaltzy at all. Also, most of the Mahler, the adagio particularly. And as far as the Elgar goes, I’ve never heard it played live and it was quite stirring. I’m going to have to read the program notes to learn again what he meant by that title. I did only say I didn’t like them because I wanted to ruin, as you said, your post-concert euphoria for taking away my car keys and implying I can’t hold my liquor, which sometimes I can’t, at least not enough to drive. Truth is, I was a little high at the end of the concert from that one drink, probably because I hadn’t had anything to eat tonight but the sandwich we split in the lobby before the concert began and a single olive. And I don’t want you to go to the next unsubscribed concert with a friend. I want you to go with me, although you can bring along a friend. Next time we’re there — in fact, all the next times — I won’t even drink a beer during intermission. If I do have a martini or beer there, it’ll be with more food in me than half a sandwich and a whole olive and before the first half of the concert begins. Finally, and I’m not making this stuff up, whenever you don’t think I’m fit to drive because of how much I had to drink that night — even just one martini — or how little I had to eat before or while I drank, I’ll go along with it without taking it as some sort of rebuke, for that’s how fair-minded I think you are and how much I respect your judgment. So what do you say? Everything okay with us again?” and she said “Everything’s settled. And you can kiss my hand, Martin, but make it quick because I’m driving,” and she held out her right hand and he kissed it.
