I Adagio-Allegro ma non troppo
I was new in town, so I thought I’d join the local amateur orchestra. I’m a decent oboe player, so I went along to hear them play: they were pretty good, but lacked a second oboe, so I offered my services. My first reason was because I loved playing my instrument; the second, and this was almost as good a reason, was that the first oboe was this young girl who was really pretty good, from what I could tell. But oh, she wore these amazing glasses, the sort you’d queue up to see if you were that way inclined. I watched her play from a distance, but I could see that her lenses were really thick, in frames that were squarish metal and not especially flattering in themselves. But those lenses were so darned… interesting! I wanted so much to sit with her, to watch her from close up… it felt so good to have such an opportunity. She must have been no more than eighteen. I met the conductor after their brief performance, then gave him a quick demonstration of my skills. He was impressed enough to offer me a place next to this girl! I thanked whatever lucky stars shine on me and went home.
A few days later I was in a shop selling books and suchlike. I spent some time browsing, and happened by the cash desk. You would not believe who was there, behind the till? None other the girl who played the oboe a few days before. I smiled at her, but she looked at me as if I wasn’t there: my mistake being that I wasn’t a paying customer. I instantly resolved to remedy that, thus I returned to the bookshelves and picked up a book: it could have been any book, but I thought a music book would be better, being as I was hoping to spark a conversation. I went back to the cash desk and put the book on the counter. She looked up at me, and asked pleasantly, ‘can I help you?’ I was lost in those thick lenses! Her eyes seemed to be so small and distorted behind them, but light blue and intelligent. Dimly I registered the rest of her: she was a tall girl, at least 5'10, slim, almost skinny. I didn’t care, I was enslaved by the way her face was pushed in each side by her lenses. She blinked at me, as if she could not believe someone could find her thickly corrected gaze even remotely attractive. She glanced down at the book I’d put on the counter, and smiled gently, knowingly. She commented, ‘ahh, I’ve read this. It’s a very good book.’ I smiled at her. She rang it up on the till and I handed her the money. The smiles stopped pretty quickly once money reared its head.
The very next evening I went to practice with my new friends: I hadn’t met anyone else there before. The conductor introduced me, then I was forgotten in the general hubbub. There was no sign of the girl I’d seen and briefly met earlier. Then she came in, looking around for the conductor that I could see quite plainly: the way the lights glittered on the plano fronts of her lenses was beautiful to witness as she turned her head this way and that. She wore a t-shirt and jeans, pretty scruffy but I was paying little attention to that. After finding him and offering her apologies, she came toward me. It wasn’t until she had carefully negotiated a music stand and sat beside me that she realised who I was. She said to me, in a slightly nervous manner, ‘Hi. I’m Susan.’ She patted her glasses onto her face gently. I told her my name; we chatted amiably enough, then she asked, looking at me curiously, squinting gently, ‘didn’t I see you yesterday? In the bookshop where I work?’ ‘I think so.’ I said, baiting her rather mischievously, as I was trying to ascertain whether those amazing strong, thick lenses did all that was required to clarify her vision or not.
At that, she stopped squinting, and I guessed she’d recognised my voice rather than my face. After getting her oboe from its case and some sheet music, she leant forward to put it on the music stand, then pulled it nearer to herself and sat down, pushed her glasses onto her face again and looked at me. She admitted, rather shyly, ‘sorry, I can’t see so well. I’m really shortsighted, that’s why I need to have it close up. Is that OK with you?’ ‘Fine, no problem.’ She smiled a gentle smile, then she looked away at the conductor. I could see the lovely thick ground edge of her lens, and her eye behind it narrowed and struggling to focus. “Mmm,” I thought, “that strikes a chord with me!”
Then she turned back to me, lights flashing alluringly on her plano front lenses. She asked, ’err, I know this might sound strange but could you help me out if I lose the beat?' ‘Can’t you see the baton from here?’ Her mouth tightened, and she looked a little apologetic. She admitted, ‘sort of. It gets even more sort of when we’re performing, because the lights are often turned down too dim. Oh, and when we do concerts by candlelight, I can’t see it at all.’ ‘OK, I’ll help you.’ She smiled her thanks at me and said, ‘Just kick my foot or something when you’re not playing.’ I then asked her, ‘how shortsighted are you?’ She paused just for a splintered second, as if not many people asked that question of her. Then she touched the front of her left lens with a finger, and said, ‘About 25 in this eye.’ then touched her right lens and concluded, ‘26 in this eye.’
Her hand dropped to her lap, her shoulders slumped a little and her expression turned a little sour, her voice unhappy as she told me ‘I can’t see anything much without them, the world’s just one big blur.’ I looked sympathetic. She then continued in the same vein, seeing I was interested, ‘I started getting shortsighted when I was three. I remember wearing glasses back then, at least those days I could get clear vision with glasses, since 4-5 years ago I haven’t been able to see clearly no matter what lenses I have.’ I asked her, trying to keep my thoughts straight, ’ever tried contacts?' For an instant, she gave me at look as if I was asking her to jump to the moon. She almost spat the word out, ‘contacts?’ She gathered herself to give her opinion on such, then said, ’they make my eyes itch and water. I remember last year trying them, my eyes were swimming!' She shook her head, then had to stop in order to push her glasses back on, and then said with bitterness in her eyes and mouth ‘I’m stuck with these, they make me look so ugly.’ I said to her, ‘you’re not ugly. You’re really attractive.’ Her eyes, shrunk by her lenses, opened wide and she gave me a lovely smile. I could see that my compliment went down really well.’ She gently touched my wrist with her long-fingered hand, and said uncertainly, ‘you’re… very kind.’ I sat gazing into her lovely shrunken blue eyes, blinking softly behind those thick lenses… Then the conductor tapped his music stand, coughed, and asked for our attention. That beautiful moment was over, but I knew some more would follow.
The conductor told us what we would practice for the concert in a couple of weeks: Susan found it in the sheet music, again by peering closely at it to be certain, then sat back and we all started playing. Never have I had so much trouble concentrating on what I was doing! I kept looking at Susan through as much of the corner of my eye as I dared, seeing the world through her glasses at a distance made everything so small and weird! During a pause for the pair of us, she looked at me and mouthed, ‘don’t be nervous!’ I wasn’t nervous, I was simply enraptured by the way the lights played across her plano lenses as she turned her head to me. She smiled, and then turned away to play, just in time to avoid being noticed by the conductor. Thankfully I think he cut me some slack because it was my first go, although I’d have played better without Susan right next to me!
II Elegia: Largo maestoso
We all packed away our instruments, then Susan stood watching me in a curious way, I couldn’t decide whether it was the glasses or just her expression that got to me. But she looked to me a little expectant, so I walked past the music stand and asked, ‘do you want to come for a drink afterwards?’ ‘Yeah, OK. There’s a bar here too, you know.’ She led me out the door and along the passageway, her fingertips occasionally touching the wall as if for reassurance.
We went through the door that said “Bar” on it - I think she knew which way it was without reading the sign. I asked Susan what she wanted; it transpired that she wanted a soft drink. She then asked me, ‘can you see anywhere, you know, like a quiet corner?’ I looked around, pointed and replied, ’try over there.' With a grim smile, she said, ‘I’ll see when I get there.’
I bought drinks, then followed her to a spot that was indeed a quiet corner. We sat facing each other: she gave me a solemn smile, then said hesitantly, ‘you… said I was attractive. I’ve never heard that before. Thank you…’ She then pressed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose again, squinting awkwardly past my shoulder. After vainly struggling for a few precious moments, she abandoned her attempts and turned to me, still squinting for all she was worth, and asked, ‘what does that sign say?’ I turned to look: it was just a sign to say credit was not given here, so I told her. She commented sadly, ‘I could’ve read it if it was black on white, I think. Red on blue’s a bit too tough for me at that distance.’
Her hand dropped to her drink, and she gave up squinting. Unhappily she said ‘I wish I could see clearly. Then I wouldn’t have to keep faking it, pretending I can see when I can’t. It’s so embarrassing having to ask people to read things to me all the time. And these glasses, well I wouldn’t mind quite so much if they gave me all I needed. They help a lot, I really can’t see anything without them, but honestly, I look really awful with them on!’ Now that was a bait for me to snap at! I replied as deliberately as I could, ‘you don’t look horrid, Susan. I really like the way you look with glasses. You look lovely.’ She looked at me uncertainly, with a expression that told me I’d hit the right note. Then, as if she were just waking from a long nightmare and was only dimly aware of the outside world, she said ‘I… think I believe you. You mean that don’t you?’ I nodded majestically. I held her eyes with my gaze, and she smiled such a smile… Then she gently touched my hand with hers, and I was again swept into another world, one which contained only those little blue eyes of hers, blinking behind those lenses! Dimly I realised that she was considering something important. Then she said, ‘do you want to come home with me?’ It was my turn to smile.
III Scherzo: Allegro molto vivace
We got up from the table and went outside. It was dark outside, but thankfully not cold. I asked Susan, ‘where do you live?’ She replied, ‘a bus ride away,’ and then pointed left and said, ’this way.' She offered her hand, which I took; she held on tightly, and looked at me through those bejewelled eyes of hers. She said apologetically, ‘sorry, I can’t see so well at night.’ We walked along the side of the concert hall, then she stopped to peer at a notice stuck on the side: it was saying something about further concerts, but it took her longer than might be expected to figure it out.
We walked on again, then turned the corner into a well-lit street, busy with cars, and several bus stops together. Susan tended to lead me along with her as we passed a couple of stops, then we stopped at the next one. She looked expectantly into the distance: whatever her conception of that far horizon was, it wasn’t the same as mine. Gently she said, ’this is where I usually have a bit of trouble.' I nodded, because I’d guessed I’d be playing a game of “tell me the bus number” with her. Soon enough the first candidate came lurching around the corner. Susan didn’t really seem to see it at first, then she had a really good look at it, by means that were by now far from unexpected: glasses shoved into the face and eyes screwed up so tight it seemed they might never open properly again. And, predictably, she hadn’t a clue what the number was. She then realised I was watching her performance avidly, so elbowed me in the ribs, and asked, ‘well, help me out then.’ I told her the number. I asked her rather vacantly what number she wanted, so she told me, ‘183’ ‘OK.’ I thought “Mmm, long journey ahead.”
Susan squinted at the next couple of buses, only seeming to realise what number they were when they were almost on top of us. She reminded me, ‘you’re supposed to be looking out for me!’ ‘Sorry. Look, here it comes.’ She looked at me as if I was making fun of her, which I had no intention of doing. It again took her almost until the bus was nearly stopped before she realised that I was right. The bus stopped, the doors opened, and I let her get on first. She showed her bus pass; I had to pay. I followed her down the aisle of the bus and sat next to her at the back, with her nearest the window. She sat gazing out, evidently fruitlessly, because she soon gave up and looked at me as the bus pulled away.
She said to me, ’thanks for your help. That’s always a pain, because I can’t tell what number it is very far away, and the drivers sometimes don’t stop in time after I’ve seen them. So I miss buses regularly. I usually make sure there’s someone around so I get a chance to check it out when it’s stationary.' I nodded wisely: I guessed this was a good idea for her. I asked her, ‘did you ever drive a car?’ For a moment she gave a look that suggested I was brain dead. But then she shrugged and explained, ’no, never did. I tried to do the vision test a few months ago, but the optician thought I was joking, and told me I had no chance. He was quite right, of course.'
Then I suggested something to her, ‘you could drive my car.’ ‘Are you nuts? Imagine letting me drive a car!’ ‘Why not… I can watch out for you, and you could try it on a quiet road.’ ‘I doubt I could tell if it were quiet or not. I couldn’t read road signs. Hey, I couldn’t even see the signs, probably.’ I admitted to myself she was probably right. But then she patted my arm, and smiled at me, ’thanks, it’s a kind thought, if a bit mad. But I’m too scared to do it.' We fell silent for a moment, and then the bus trailed to a halt for traffic lights.
I looked out of the window at a furniture shop: it had a big sale on, advertised by a suitably big sign. Big enough to see quite easily. Susan saw me looking and said, ‘well, what does it say?’ I squinted and said playfully, ‘oh, I’ve forgotten my glasses and can’t read it.’ For a moment I gulped, thinking I’d blown it. But then she laughed, and then looked out of the window and said gaily, ’never mind, darling, let me help you…' Her voice trailed off as she realised she hadn’t a hope, despite her best efforts and squinting fit to burst. She said to me slowly, ’there’s four red blurs, and I think the first one is an S.' ‘What about the next line down?’ She shrugged and said, ‘what next line?’ Then she said, ‘Oh, I think you’re right, there may be something there… Anyway, I thought you couldn’t read it?’ She turned to me, giggling gently, then her face transformed into a soft smile, and behind those thick lenses her eyes melted me. I told her what it said: as I’d thought, it was hardly the sort of information she’d really press her nose against a bus window to obtain.
IV Romanza: Andante cantabile con moto
The bus travelled on for some time to come, then Susan told me, ’next stop.' She looked slightly grave as she said ‘I suppose one day I won’t be able to do this.’ ‘What?’ ‘Know when to get off, silly!’ I nodded slowly, and took in another of those smiling looks of hers as the bus came to a halt. We got off and the bus sped away without us. Susan again squinted into the distance, and I asked, ‘what are you looking for?’ ‘Cars, silly. Comon.’ She went across the road, checking continually to make certain her view of the road at the kerbside was still accurate. I followed, and thankfully it wasn’t busy. I wondered briefly how long she would take to cross the road if it were.
Her home was up a short street and up some stairs, the second floor of a larger house once a single dwelling. She let me in, and I took in the interior of her flat. It wasn’t big, really, and fairly tidy, but - it seemed to me that it had been cleaned regularly but inefficiently. I sat on the old sofa, and noticed a little dust behind it. Oh well, maybe she couldn’t see it; I looked away, pretending it wasn’t there. She made me a coffee, and one for herself, then sat on the sofa: not right next to me, but not at the far end either. She took her oboe out of its case, and started cleaning it. She said ‘I have to do this so often, I like it shiny.’ I thought it was shiny enough, but I said nothing as she gently stroked a cloth around it. Then she commented to me, rather shyly as it happened, ’this always makes me feel, you know, aroused.' I could quite understand why, except I got more pleasure from playing the oboe, not playing with it, if you understand me.
We talked for a time about music, and then out of the blue she said to me, slightly haltingly, ‘you know, you said I was attractive. Well, I’m curious. What about me do you find most attractive?’ I gulped inwardly. Should I tell her the truth, and risk making myself sound stupid? Or lie, and miss an opportunity? I had to choose very fast, so I chose. I replied ‘I like the way you look in glasses.’ She opened her mouth in a little ‘O’ of surprise… Yet my unconscious told me that her surprise wasn’t complete. Then she became more convincing in her response, ’that’s the first time anyone’s said that to me!’ She shook her head in disbelief. Then, perhaps suspiciously quickly, she got over her shock, put down her oboe, and squirmed her way over to me. She touched my head, and ran her fingers through my hair. Naturally I responded, and quite soon we were kissing. She broke off to ask, ‘shall I take my glasses off?’ ‘In a minute, if you wish.’ She smiled, and we kissed again.
Then I asked, ‘can I look through your glasses?’ She stared at me for a long heartbeat, then squirmed away slightly from me, and pulled her glasses from her face. She gave her head a shake to loosen her hair; it fell around her face, framing it beautifully. And her eyes… They were bigger than I’d thought they might have been: lovely clear blue eyes. She squinted at me rather ineffectually, then gave up, giving her gaze a sort of unfocused, spaced out look, as if she was looking into another dimension. I took her specs from her hand. She said to me ‘I don’t normally let people do this, but as you’ve been so kind to me, OK.’ I lifted her impossibly strong glasses to my face and put them on. They seemed so heavy, so thick, and looking through them, everything seemed so far away and shrunken. I looked at Susan’s face, but as these lenses were meant to correct high myopia, they made my vision into that of a high hypermetrope instead: her face was an eye-watering smear. Not wanting to make my eyes ache, I took them off. Susan was looking at me in her strange way again, sometimes fighting to focus, sometimes simply seeing what she could. She told me ‘I’m still here!’ I pressed her glasses into her hand, at which she looked relieved. She put them back on: obviously her corrected vision was a vast improvement over that without glasses. She got up, turned to me, and asked briskly, but quietly, ‘so shall we do it then?’
V Finale: Allegro con spirito e fuoco
She led me into her bedroom, and we sat on the bed together kissing each other, then we laid down, feeling each other with gentle but avid hands. I remember feeling her breasts in my hands, undressing her, you know the sort of thing, but I also remember touching those flat-fronted lenses, gently drawing a finger across them or feeling around the side to feel the thickness. There’s nothing on Earth like feeling a lens, especially when it’s on a face so pretty and gentle. She said to me, ‘shall I take them off?’ ‘No, please don’t, you turn me on as you are.’ She did not look so surprised as I thought she would: I pressed my cheek against the flat front of her left lens, to which she pulled away, with a “don’t break my glasses” look on her face. I assured her that I knew what I was doing. She smiled, and nodded, and let me do it, warning me softly to be gentle, in all ways…
Then it was down to the more normal parts of sex between a man and woman, except fired by the feel of lenses and frames against my cheeks and nose, and the look of her refracted eyes behind her lenses, and the way the world behind her head seemed to push in each side of her face….. Oh, ecstasy!!!!
I lay panting beside her, her glorious bespectacled regard on me… I turned to her, and breathed fog onto her lenses. She didn’t flinch. Eventually, an eternity of passion must end, and so it was for us. I got dressed, and said to her as she lay on the bed, ‘I’ll see you again at the orchestra?’ She smiled gaily, and replied, ‘oh, yes. I like playing with you.’ I said my goodbyes and see-you-next-weeks and left to catch a bus.
A few minutes later Susan got up and put a dressing gown on, then reached up to a bookshelf. She brought down a small black book, not unlike a diary; she opened it to a particularly well-worn page, and noted down a number, then thought to herself, with a knowing smile, “Mmm, I’m doing well this month!” She then she sat down, took off her glasses and took out her contact lenses. She sat back and looked into the distance, her vision now perfect. She sighed with relief, then murmured, ‘ahh, clarity!’