Free Sight Reading by Daphne Kalotay

shook his head. “She had to go back to North Carolina just yesterday, in fact. Help her poor mum out for a bit.”
    Remy nodded slowly, thinking about the beautiful woman with the blue eyes and perfectly smooth hair. Even her perfume had smelled just right. Finding Remy and Mr. Elko in the kitchen together, she had barely glanced at Remy, as if she could not be bothered.
    It hadn’t occurred to Remy that there might be a wife, though she supposed she ought to have known. But she wasn’t used to wondering about things like spouses; how was she to have guessed? Glancing at Mr. Elko’s hands, she said, “You don’t wear a ring.”
    Mr. Elko raised his eyebrows the way he did in the Mozart when it was time for the clarinet to sneak back in. “I didn’t know that was a requirement.”
    â€œA wedding ring.” Remy heard how demanding she sounded, when really she wasn’t even sure she believed in wedding rings.
    â€œWe didn’t have the money for that. Not back when we married. My father-in-law was shocked. Right away he went out and bought her one. Gold thing with diamonds and sapphires—I think they’re sapphires. . . .” He made a face, as if wondering. “But back when she was your age she said she didn’t need a ring. She said love shouldn’t be about possession—”
    Just hearing him recite another woman’s phrasing made Remy feel sick. “You must miss her. You look sad.”
    â€œOh, I always feel a bit gloomy after a final performance. A sort of postpartum depression.”
    â€œMe, too,” Remy said. Of course he loved that smooth-haired woman; she was beautiful, and she was his wife. Remy looked down into what was left of her pink wine. “I guess that’s the way it always is after a performance. For an hour or two we’re all working so well together, we create this sublimely beautiful thing, and then suddenly it’s over and we all go our separate ways.”
    Mr. Elko was looking at her appreciatively. “You know, you’re exactly right. It’s not postpartum. It’s postcoital, this letdown.” He laughed. “That’s exactly what it is.”
    He didn’t appear to think twice about having used the term “postcoital.” Remy thought for a moment. “It is physical, isn’t it? The whole thing. Not just the way my fingertips feel”—she showed him the tips of her left hand—“and not just the way my back sometimes hurts. It’s the way I feel during the performance. Like in the Sibelius, when we’re playing those swirls, and the trumpets sound like they’re off in the distance? My hair stands on end, every time, and I feel like someone’s just stripped my skin off—that sounds disgusting, I don’t mean it that way.”
    What she meant was that in those moments she was acutely aware of being a living being in a mysterious world, and at the same time a mere particle in the world—a world that would continue on without her, long after her heels ceased to scuff the earth. But it was easier to just describe the physical sensation. “It makes me feel exposed, like all my nerve endings are reaching into the air. I feel that way every time.”
    Mr. Elko looked at her. “It makes me feel that way, too.”
    The side of her that was next to him felt as if it were on fire. Yet it didn’t matter, because there was a woman—a beautiful woman with bright eyes and smooth hair—he already loved.
    Remy said, “I should get going,” hoping he would tell her to stay.
    He took a sip of wine and made a comical face. “Oh, yes, avoid this pink liquid at all costs.”
    Remy stood and gave as much of a smile as she could. “Well, good night,” she said, and went home.
    â€œSHE SAID SHE DIDN’T NEED a ring. She said love shouldn’t be about possession—”
    Heading home from the