The entire choir watched as he stood, his voice thick with a sickening sincerity, and publicly staked his claim on me and the solo, sealing the performance with a slow, conspiratorial wink.
It started with a saved seat and a protein bar.
Soon, his unsolicited kindness felt like a thousand tiny threads wrapping around me, smothering me in front of an audience who only saw the thoughtful gentleman. My polite rejections were always twisted into a challenge for him to try harder, and every attempt to create distance was met with a wounded look that painted me as the villain.
He cornered me in booths, followed me down empty hallways, and invaded my phone, all under the impenetrable armor of just being friendly.
He spent months trying to make us a duet, but he never imagined my most devastating performance would be a solo, using the very stage he built for my humiliation as the weapon for his own spectacular downfall.
The Overture of Unwanted Attention: The First Note of Dissonance
The smell of old sheet music and dusty velvet curtains always grounded me. It was the scent of focus, of harmony. But lately, a sour note had crept in, and its name was Leo. He stood two bodies down from me in the baritone section, a man whose physical presence seemed to take up more space than his frame suggested. He was pudgy in a soft, self-satisfied way, with a habit of puffing out his chest when he thought he’d landed a particularly resonant G-sharp.
Tonight, Mr. Davies, our perpetually flustered director, had us drilling a tricky passage in a Fauré piece, the sopranos soaring over a turbulent sea of lower voices. I loved this part. It felt like flying. I closed my eyes, letting the note swell in my chest, aiming it for the back wall of the chilly rehearsal hall.
“Beautiful, Clara. Just beautiful,” a voice murmured, too close, as the cutoff signal was given.
I opened my eyes. Leo. He’d shuffled closer during the crescendo. His smile was wide and gummy. “You and I, we’re duet partners in life, you know? Your voice just… it just does something to me.”
I forced a tight, polite smile, the kind women practice in the mirror until it becomes a reflex. It was the third time he’d used that exact line this month. “Thanks, Leo. We’re all just trying to blend, right?” I shifted my weight, putting a half-step of distance between us. It was a subtle retreat, a non-verbal plea.
Rehearsal ended twenty minutes later. I was shoving my score into my tote bag, already thinking about the grant proposal I had to finish by Friday and whether my son, Alex, had remembered to take the chicken out of the freezer. A shadow fell over me.
“Need a ride, Clara?” Leo jingled his keys, a little jingle of presumptive service. “It’s no trouble. A nice guy’s gotta make sure the star soprano gets home safe.”
“I’m good, Leo, thanks,” I said, shrugging on my coat. “Mark is picking me up tonight.” It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like a shield.
He deflated, but only for a second. “Ah, Mark. Of course.” He winked, a slow, greasy motion. “Well, the offer always stands. For my favorite duet partner.” He walked away, and I watched him go, feeling a familiar coil of irritation tighten in my stomach. It wasn’t flattery. It was a claim.
The Overture of Unwanted Attention: A Harmony of One
The car ride home was quiet, just the hum of the engine and the soft rock station Mark always had on. The tension from my shoulders began to seep away as the familiar streets of our neighborhood rolled past.
“How was rehearsal?” Mark asked, his hand finding mine on the center console. His touch was warm, familiar, a comfortable chord I’d known for eighteen years.
“It was fine. We’re getting the Fauré down.” I hesitated. “Leo was at it again.”
Mark sighed, a soft puff of air. “The ‘duet partner’ guy?”
“The one and only. Offered me a ride home again. Told him you were picking me up.” I watched the headlights paint stripes across our joined hands. “It’s just… it’s getting old, you know? It feels less like a joke every time he says it.”
“He’s probably just a lonely guy, hon. Socially awkward. Thinks he’s being charming.” Mark squeezed my hand. “You’re a beautiful woman in a community choir. You’re bound to get some harmless attention.”
I pulled my hand back to adjust my scarf, the excuse flimsy even to my own ears. “I don’t think it’s harmless. It’s… sticky. Like I can’t get it off me.”
He shot me a concerned look. “Is he threatening you?”
“No, God, no. Nothing like that. It’s the opposite. He’s cloyingly nice. He just doesn’t listen. I say ‘we’re just friends,’ and he hears ‘try harder.’”
Mark nodded slowly, turning onto our street. “Okay. Well, if he ever crosses a real line, you tell me.”
I knew he meant well. But his words amplified a frustrating little voice in my head, the one that whispered, *Am I making a big deal out of nothing? Is a ‘real line’ the only one that matters?* The problem wasn’t a line. It was a relentless, creeping fog. We pulled into the driveway, and the warm lights of our house seemed to promise a safety that felt increasingly fragile.
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