avatarElizabeth Dawber

Summary

The narrative details a romantic relationship that mirrors the changing seasons from its blossoming beginning to its eventual decline, set against the backdrop of classical music performances.

Abstract

The story recounts a woman's romantic journey with Andy, a man she meets at a classical music concert. Their relationship begins in winter, progresses through spring and summer, and ends in the following winter. Initially, their connection is filled with harmony and shared interests, such as music and nature walks. However, as they move in together and face the realities of day-to-day life, including job changes, health issues, and financial strain, their relationship starts to deteriorate. The woman's nostalgia for her urban life and career aspirations lead her to pursue an opportunity in London, resulting in the couple's separation on their one-year anniversary. The tale concludes with the woman reflecting on the transient nature of their relationship, likening the end of their love to the season of winter, which offers a fresh start.

Opinions

  • The author seems to convey that love, much like music and nature, is subject to change and can evolve from a harmonious symphony to discordant notes.
  • There is an underlying sentiment that shared interests, such as a love for classical music, can strongly attract individuals to each other but may not be enough to sustain a relationship through its challenges.
  • The narrative suggests that personal growth and career aspirations can sometimes conflict with romantic relationships, leading to difficult decisions and potential separation.
  • The author implies that the end of a relationship can be a time for reflection and renewal, akin to the quiet and introspective nature of winter.
  • The story reflects a belief in fate and meaningful coincidences, as evidenced by the woman's job opportunity aligning with her relationship's end.
  • The author appears to appreciate the beauty in endings, as they symbolize the potential for new beginnings.

RELATIONSHIPS

The Four Seasons of Love

A musical love story of varying tempos

Image: Vecteezy

Winter (L’Inverno) 2017–2018

I step over bags and boots as I make my way along the row of tightly packed seats in the concert hall.

The air reverberates with a discordant twang as the Piccadilly Sinfonietta adjusts the tension of their strings in preparation for their performance of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

I reach my seat, L14, and sit down, tucking my coat tightly around me. The man seated in L13 acknowledges me with a shy smile. He has light brown hair, kind eyes, and full pink lips that reveal perfectly straight white teeth. And he’s my age — a rare sight at a classical music concert. I also note that seat L12 is unoccupied.

The tuning process concludes, signaling the musicians are ready to begin. The shuffle of feet, rustle of coats, and echo of winter coughs gradually fade, and quiet anticipation fills the hall.

And then — Spring begins.

It’s not long before my gaze drifts to my handsome neighbor, and a chorus of questions flows through my mind — What’s your favorite composition? What corners of the world have you been to? And where do you still want to explore? What does your perfect life look like? Have you had your heart broken like I have? Are you searching for someone to share your life with? Do you have a gentle touch? Will you laugh when I pull silly faces? Will you share my highest highs and my lowest lows? Will you love me unconditionally?

He looks my way and I quickly turn my gaze back to the stage, but I do not stop considering the possibilities of who he is and who we could be.

Forty minutes later, Four Seasons reaches its winter conclusion signaling the first interval of the evening. I introduce myself to L13 before he can stand.

He tells me his name is Andy and he lives in the Cotswolds — the heart of the English countryside. He owns a business there reupholstering antique furniture. He’s here in London shopping for fabric and couldn’t miss the opportunity to attend a classical music performance. He’s also a musician — classical piano — the kind that plays at weddings.

“Who’s your favorite composer?” He asks.

“Debussy,” I say.

“I’d love to play Clair de Lune for you sometime.”

And he does, on our third date.

He owns a Yamaha Clavinova which is positioned at an angle next to his couch. I lie down on the soft fabric and watch as his fingers dance over the keys. I rest my hand on his thigh and feel his muscles contract every time he presses the peddle with his foot.

After many encores, he joins me on the couch. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat — it’s adagio, and mine is allegro. At night, we fall asleep with our limbs entwined. I don’t know how I ever slept without him.

We spend our weekends walking in the woods, enjoying the acoustics of birdsong and rustling trees. We find heart-shaped leaves, and we collect them and take them home with us.

Life is so simple now that everything is us, our, and we. And anything that cannot be composed in this way simply becomes background noise.

Spring (La Primavera) 2018

I leave my job, apartment, and all my friends and family in London and move to the country.

“But you love the city,” my best friend says.

“I love him more,” I reply.

On our first morning living together, I watch as he dresses for work.

“I wish you could stay here with me today,” I say.

He undresses and slips back into the warmth of our bed; wraps his arms around me and presses his lips to mine.

He takes the next day off work too, and the next, and the next.

I teach him how to make the perfect coffee. He teaches me how to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D. I ride pillion on his Triumph Bonneville T100. We paint the bathroom midnight blue.

We drive in his van to the warehouse where he works. It’s his turn to rest his hand on my thigh, only moving it to change gear and then returning it to where it belongs immediately after.

He shows me the furniture he is reupholstering — a 100-year-old Chesterfield, a leather scroll wing armchair, and Victorian dining chairs; the seats padded with horsehair. I run my hands over everything — rough wool, smooth wood, and then delicate skin. We make love on a 19th-century emerald green velvet chaise longue.

We talk about being a three even though we have only just become a two. Marriage and motherhood have always been dissonant chords to me, but now, they sound like harmony.

When he finally returns to work, I accompany him, helping him select fabrics and move furniture. Sometimes, we listen to Classic FM on the radio but mainly we work in silence. We don’t need to say anything to know what the other is thinking — a touch, a glance, a breath inhaled or exhaled. The language of love is not dialogue.

Summer (L’Estate) 2018

My breathing is labored — I have developed a dust allergy and cannot accompany him to the warehouse anymore.

He works longer hours to make up for all the work he did not complete last season. I am left alone for 12 hours a day or more. I search for work on my laptop, and when I tire of that I rest on the bed, on the couch, on the floor. The neighbor's cat comes in through the cat flap and circles around me, looking to see what I’m doing.

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing.”

The sun stretches across the room, a reminder of how many hours there are left in the day before he returns home. I sleep to pass the time, and when I wake it is dark and I hear him in the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I wanted to let you rest.”

“I don’t need rest. I need you.” My pitch is high and echoes off the walls.

He crosses the room and hugs me but his embrace is weak.

We sit and eat in silence. I have nothing to say because I have done nothing with my day, and he has no energy to tell me what he has done because he has done too much with his.

After dinner, he falls asleep on the couch. I go to bed alone.

Autumn (L’Autunno) 2018

This is not the life I signed up for.

I have been out of work for almost 8 months. My savings have diminished. I spend the last of what I have on train fare to visit friends and family in London. I watch as the landscape changes from fields to towns. I feel like I am coming out of hibernation.

Life in the country is put on fermata.

“When are you coming home,” he says a week later when I still have not returned. “I miss you.”

I do not think about, do not care about what he wants. I am selfish and stay in London for another week. I let every other call from him go to voicemail.

When I return, it is late. I hear him playing Clair de Lune. I run up the stairs. “Sorry, I need to pee, it was a long journey and you know what I’m like with toilets on trains.” The bathroom door slams, accidentally — intentionally. I’m sick of hearing him play the same music over and over and over again.

I wake in the night. His knee presses into my back. I shake him awake.

“Your knee is on my side of the bed.”

In the morning, my words are forte, and his are staccato. We resolve nothing. Our relationship reaches a crescendo.

Winter (L’Inverno) 2018–2019

Sunday morning. We sit on opposite ends of the couch. He reads the news on his iPad. I look for jobs on my laptop. I am no longer looking locally, there is nothing for me here.

I have decided to go back to London, but I haven’t told him this. I have just applied for my dream job at the London School of Economics — it feels like fate.

A week later, I’m invited to interview. I put the train fare on my credit card. I arrive early even though I don’t need to be there until two. I walk around the campus and fall in love.

“I won’t get the job, it’s one of the best schools in the world,” I tell him when I get back later that evening. “But I couldn’t not apply. You understand, right?”

He nods. “I hope you get the job,” he says. “I want you to be happy, again.”

I get the job.

The day I leave is our one-year anniversary — neither of us mentions this fact. He drives me to the station. His hands stay firmly on the wheel. When we arrive he helps me with my luggage. Then we hug. It’s a hug that says what happened to us?

“Bye,” I say, pulling away.

“Take care,” he says.

I board the train to Kings Cross St Pancras. I think about the last 12 months, how I thought I had finally found the one, but I was wrong. I rest my head against the seat and listen to the sound of the train — it’s lamentoso.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” my colleague, Caroline says.

“Heading anywhere nice?” I reply.

“The local church puts on lunchtime classical music performances. Today they are playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.”

“That’s one of my favorites. Mind if I join you?” I say.

“Not at all,” she says, slipping into her coat. “Do you have a favorite season?”

“It used to be summer,” I say, switching off my computer. “But now, now it’s winter. Winter gives you a blank white canvas to start all over again.”

Musical terminology

Adagio: A slow and leisurely tempo.

Allegro: A fast and lively tempo.

Dissonant/Dissonance: When two or more tones clash and create a harsh, unpleasant sound.

Forte: Loud

Fermata: A pause of unspecified length on a note or rest.

Lamentoso: A mournful or sorrowful tone.

Resolve: The movement or progression of a dissonant or tense musical interval or chord to a consonant or stable one.

Staccato: Performed with each note sharply detached or separated from the others.

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Summer Love
Relationships
This Happened To Me
Personal Essay
The Narrative Arc
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