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.
The Overture of Unwanted Attention: The Baritone’s Burden
The next week, the fog rolled in thicker. I arrived at rehearsal a few minutes early, hoping to grab my usual seat in the back row of the soprano section. It was already taken. Or rather, saved. A bottle of water and a single, plastic-wrapped protein bar sat on the cushion, and Leo was perched on the chair next to it, beaming.
“Saved you a spot!” he announced, loud enough for the early arrivals to hear. “Got you a snack, too. Can’t have our star running out of steam.”
“Oh. Leo, you didn’t have to do that.” My voice was strained. I wanted my old seat. I wanted the anonymity of the back row where I could blend. He had placed me in the front row, a spotlight I hadn’t asked for.
“Nonsense. A gentleman always provides.”
I had a choice: make a scene and insist on moving, or swallow the annoyance and sit down. I swallowed. The protein bar felt like a lead weight in my hand. I tucked it into my bag, a piece of evidence for a crime no one else could see.
This became the new pattern. He’d save me a seat, always next to him if he could manage it, always with some small, unsolicited offering—a coffee he’d brewed at home (“so much better than that stuff from the machine”), a pack of throat lozenges (“heard a little rasp in your voice last week”), a printed-out article on breathing techniques.
Each gift was a tiny, silken thread, and I could feel them wrapping around me. To refuse felt churlish. To accept felt like a concession. He was smothering me with kindness, a performance of care designed for an audience. He wasn’t just being nice to me; he was being nice *at* me, ensuring everyone in the Civic Chorale saw what a thoughtful, considerate man he was. The nice guy. The one who takes care of his duet partner.
The Overture of Unwanted Attention: Crescendo of Awkwardness
After rehearsal, a group of us went to The Rusty Mug, a pub down the street that had decent fries and cheap beer. I usually loved these nights. It was a chance to decompress, to talk about something other than sixteenth notes and diction. I was deep in a conversation with Sarah, one of the altos, about our respective teenagers’ baffling social lives when Leo slid into the booth beside me, sandwiching me against the wall.
“Mind if I join you ladies?” he asked, though he already had. The air suddenly felt thick with his cologne, a sharp, spicy scent that seemed to be trying too hard.
Sarah’s smile tightened. “It’s a free country, Leo.”
He ignored her, turning his full attention to me. His knee pressed against mine. I tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go.
“You know, Clara,” he began, lowering his voice into a confidential murmur, “it’s so refreshing to talk to someone who gets it. My ex-wife, she never understood the artistic soul. She thought choir was just a hobby. She didn’t see that it’s… it’s a calling.”
I took a long sip of my beer, praying for an interruption. “I’m sure that was difficult,” I mumbled, my eyes darting around the table for an escape route.
“It was,” he said, his voice thick with manufactured pathos. “But then I meet someone like you. Someone with real passion. A real voice. It gives a guy hope, you know?” His hand landed on my thigh, a brief, proprietary squeeze.
That was it. The air left my lungs. In one swift motion, I grabbed my purse and slid out of the booth, nearly knocking over a pint glass. “You know what, I am so sorry, I completely forgot I have to make a call,” I said, my voice high and brittle. “Mark’s expecting to hear from me.”
I walked quickly toward the back of the pub, not stopping until I was in the relative quiet of the hallway by the restrooms. I leaned against the cool wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was just a touch. Just a knee. Just a comment. But it felt like an invasion, a violation of an unspoken contract. I hadn’t signed up for this. I had signed up to sing Fauré.
The Unraveling Melody: Rehearsal and Rejection
The big winter concert was six weeks away, and Mr. Davies was buzzing with nervous energy. He stood before us, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, holding up a fresh piece of sheet music like a holy text.
“Alright, everyone, settle down, settle down,” he chirped. “I’ve just gotten the final piece from the composer. It’s a modern arrangement, a bit challenging, but absolutely stunning.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And it features a significant soprano solo, which bleeds into a duet with a baritone.”
A ripple of excitement went through the room. A featured solo was a big deal. I felt a familiar flicker of ambition; I loved the pressure, the chance to really shine. I glanced at the music he was handing out. The soprano part was gorgeous—a soaring, lyrical line full of emotion.
I felt a presence lean over my shoulder, the scent of that aggressive cologne preceding him. “Looks like our song, Clara,” Leo whispered, his breath warm on my neck.
I recoiled, pulling my shoulder away. “It’s an audition for everyone, Leo,” I said, my voice colder than I intended.
He didn’t seem to notice the chill. He just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that grated on my nerves. “Oh, I know. But we both know who has the chemistry for a piece like this. It’s written in the stars. And the sheet music.”
I turned to face him fully, keeping my voice low but firm. “Leo, I need you to stop. The ‘duet partner’ comments, the ‘our song’ stuff. It’s making me uncomfortable. We’re choir members. That’s it.”
For the first time, his smile faltered. A flicker of something—confusion? irritation?—crossed his face before being replaced by a look of wounded sincerity. “Whoa, Clara. I’m just being friendly. Just trying to be a supportive friend. I’m sorry if you took it the wrong way.”
He made it sound like a failing on my part, an error in my interpretation of his pure, noble intentions. He was just being a nice guy, and I was being… what? Hysterical? Ungrateful? The conversation was over. He turned back to his music, but I could feel his eyes on me for the rest of the rehearsal, a heavy, expectant weight.
The Unraveling Melody: The Echo in the Hallway
I was the last one out of the rehearsal hall, having stayed behind to ask Mr. Davies a question about a tricky rhythm. As I walked down the long, empty hallway toward the exit, the echo of my footsteps seemed unnervingly loud. Then I heard a second set.
I turned. Leo was ten feet behind me, walking at the same pace.
“Leo? What are you doing?” A spike of adrenaline shot through me. The building was empty except for us and a janitor somewhere on the second floor.
“Just walking out,” he said, his voice casual. He sped up to close the distance between us. “Figured I’d walk with you. Didn’t want you heading to the parking lot all alone in the dark.”
“That’s really not necessary,” I said, my hand tightening on the strap of my bag. I kept walking, faster now.
“Hey, it’s what friends do. We look out for each other.” He was right beside me now, his presence a suffocating blanket. “Especially after our little talk earlier. I think you might be a little stressed. I just want you to know I’m here for you. No matter what.”
We reached the heavy glass doors of the main entrance. I pushed one open, desperate for the cold night air. “My husband is picking me up,” I said, stepping outside and scanning the parking lot. Mark wasn’t there yet. I’d told Mr. Davies I didn’t need a ride, planning to walk the few blocks home for some much-needed headspace. It was a lie, born of panic.
Leo’s face fell into an exaggerated pout. “Oh. Well. Alright then.” He lingered, watching me as I stood on the top step, pulling out my phone and pretending to text. “I’ll just wait with you. To make sure he shows.”
“No,” I said, the word sharper than I’d intended. “You can go, Leo. I’m a grown woman. I’ll be fine.”
He held up his hands in surrender, a wounded look on his face. “Okay, okay. Just trying to be a gentleman.” He trudged off toward his own car, and I watched until his taillights disappeared down the street before I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I stood there shivering in the cold, feeling foolish and angry. Why did I have to lie to be left alone?
The Unraveling Melody: A Conversation in Counterpoint
Sarah called me the next morning. “So, I saw Leo follow you out last night,” she said, her voice devoid of preamble. “Everything okay?”
Relief washed over me. I wasn’t imagining it. Someone else saw it. “I’m fine. He just wanted to ‘walk me to my car.’” I used air quotes, even though she couldn’t see me. “I told him Mark was picking me up.”
“Good,” she said. “Because the way he looks at you is starting to give me the serious creeps. It’s like a hawk watching a field mouse.”
“Thank you for saying that,” I said, sinking onto my kitchen stool. “I was starting to think I was crazy. I tried talking to him yesterday, telling him to back off, and he turned it around on me. Made me feel like I was being sensitive for misinterpreting his ‘friendship.’”
Sarah snorted. “Classic. It’s the ‘nice guy’ playbook. Step one: ignore all social cues. Step two: when confronted, feign innocence and imply she’s the one with the problem. It’s a way of making you question your own sanity.”
“It’s working,” I admitted. “And what am I supposed to do? I have to see him twice a week. If I make a huge deal out of it, I become the drama queen who can’t take a compliment. He has everyone convinced he’s just this big, friendly teddy bear.”
“He’s not a teddy bear,” Sarah said fiercely. “He’s a python. One of those ones that squeezes you to death but does it so slowly you don’t notice until you can’t breathe.” The metaphor was a little much, but I appreciated the sentiment. “You know, you could mention something to Davies.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples. “And say what? ‘Leo is being too nice to me’? ‘He keeps saving me a seat’? Davies would look at me like I have three heads. He’s already stressed about the concert. He doesn’t want personnel issues.”
“So you just have to put up with it?”
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