The Writing Group (TWG)

The morning of the first rehearsal, Jon rolled out of bed and knocked the vase on the bedside table onto the hardwood floor. As it hit, he could hear her voice - Can't you be more careful? Now I'll have to buy another one - and see the ritual to come. He'd offer to replace it, she'd refuse and finish the conversation by sighing and shaking her head.

Before breakfast, Jon began his warm up. It would push his scratchy voice farther than he preferred, but there was no choice - rehearsals began today. As he practiced, he wondered what the new conductor would think of his baritone; according to the grapevine, the Maestro was brilliant and difficult to please. Local gossip also said he slept with members of his orchestras and that the last affair, somehow a disaster, was the reason for this reassignment.

Jon understood the conductor's need – his own had led him to Liz. They met while he was searching the local Barnes and Noble for information on computers. Liz, carrying purple specs on her sharp nose, seduced him with her statement that all artists used MacBooks. Grateful for the recognition - he had desired it desperately at the beginning of his career - he bought one right away and accepted her offer to set it up that night.

She seduced him a second time a few nights later, filling him with wine and taking him to bed. He entered her quickly, filled with gratitude and terrified; it was his first time with a woman. Afterwards, he rolled over and fell asleep, beginning a year's worth of domestic routine - two children playing house.

His touring broke the monotony. They spent weeks apart at a time, just long enough for him to forget the hastily scribbled notes - Don't forget to do the dishes and pick up the laundry - and to remember how hard it was to find an affordable apartment. Lately, though, Jon scoured the housing ads whenever he'd been back more than a week, for the reminders were piling up, and the sex had lost its newness. He was worried, too; touring wouldn't start for two months and they weren't in the honeymoon stage anymore - he wondered if he ever had been.

That afternoon at the rehearsal hall, Jon closed his eyes, listening for his cue. He concentrated on filling his lungs slowly, deeply, as the conductor's curses rang in the cavernous hall. The string section faltered as the Maestro pitched his baton at the concert master. John shrank behind the curtain in the wings, trying to control his breath.

"Mr. Pennefield."

The wand was up, waiting for him; behind it, hawk's eyes and the face of a western movie star. Jon took his position, prayed the notes from his tongue and held his breath for the verdict.

"Thank you. You may rest."

In the evening, Jon poured over the score, determined to avoid the scathing commentary that had been heaped on the other singers. The Maestro's voice played in his ears - Thank you, you may rest, thank you, you may rest – along with a disturbing visual: muscled arms weaving and darting, graceful and strong. Liz interrupted him frequently, bringing ideas about her latest project, questions about his new schedule and, finally, initiating sex. Defeated, he fell with her into the faded sheets and finished quickly, fantasizing about something different, something harder and stronger, something he did not know. That night, he dreamt of being forced to leap across an abyss, terrified of falling into the darkness below.

Rehearsals reached late into the evenings; the conductor ignored convention, stopping only when orchestra union officials intervened. At dusk, the singers, voices brittle from exhaustion, would whisper their good-byes and rush towards home. As he set off, Jon imagined opening the door to a home where he could fall, welcomed, into his own bed. Since his late nights began, the old sofa supported his weight, while Liz's dark shape lay heavy in the bedroom.

The abyss dreams were relentless, and he woke at least once a night, gasping. During the week, Liz was gone by the time he rose and he would spend quiet mornings in the kitchen, sipping tea and searching for apartments. On weekends, during the rare times both were home, the silence between them was broken only by her laptop and his occasional coughs.

At the concert hall, the orchestra blossomed under the Maestro's baton, while the singers suffered and complained; they were mocked regularly by the tireless conductor. He had not yet criticized Jon, and so his comrades moved in, calling him teacher's pet and abandoning him in the dressing room at the end of the day. Lately, the Maestro had been stopping by to say good night; they would speak briefly about Jon's phrasing or the shadings of the orchestra. Sometimes, Jon would leave before him and hide in the shadows outside the theatre to watch the elegant coat and flowing scarf disappear into the darkness.

Several days before the performance, Liz asked for three tickets and reminded him that her parents were coming to town, something he had forgotten. Grateful, he called the box office and reserved the seats - they hadn't spoken about the concert for weeks and he'd been resigned to having his New York debut alone. They began speaking again and preparing for the visitors; Jon hid the housing ads and Liz invited him back into the bedroom. Still, the night before his debut, he returned to the couch, this time dreaming a different version of the abyss, a version in which he spread his arms and soared, with a hawk's view of the earth below.

Applause erupted after Jon's solo, followed by cheers and bravos. The Maestro nodded at him, a smile darting across the rugged checks. At the curtain call, Jon was lauded with colorful bouquets and, looking into the audience for Liz, found her, beaming, hugging her parents. As she looked towards the stage, he lifted a hand in greeting, stopping mid-wave as she glanced at him, turned abruptly and led her parents up the aisle towards the exit.

In the wings, the Maestro was shaking hands and exchanging champagne toasts with his admirers. Jon pushed through the lingering crowd and changed in the empty dressing room. Slowly, the voices and congratulatory shouts faded, doors slammed and the building quieted. Jon gathered his coat and walked through the echoing lobby, watching the custodians bending and sweeping to prepare for the next day.

On the curb, the Maestro stood, hailing a cab; Jon stepped back quickly into the familiar shadows. As it arrived, the conductor turned towards his hiding place and held out a powerful, immaculately manicured hand.

"Mr. Pennefield, will you join me?"

Jon froze. Shaking, he stepped into the glow of the marquee lights. The street noise dimmed as the Maestro smiled at him, waiting. Jon's heart fluttered and rose. He reached out, took the Maestro's hand and they entered the cab together.