Crescendo

I finished singing Jacques Brel’s Amsterdam and looked over at Jules and Holly on the couch. Jules was smiling at me, proudly. Proud that I had gotten up enough courage—or drunk enough of it—to sing for Holly. And proud of herself too, because Holly, who, before the singing had been sitting primly next to Jules, was now snuggled into her, Jules' strong arm around her.

I had sung to them both, but already assured of Jules' love and admiration, it was musical, beautiful, Holly I wanted to impress. And so, I had implored her, with Brel's words in my mouth, with his haunting melody, "ne me quitte pas,” after which I plunged into Amsterdam, finishing with an almost entirely feigned drunken flourish.

I looked at them, snuggled together, love for me pouring out of my beloved, while Holly... Holly looked entirely transported. Her eyes gleamed. Her face filled with a kind of wonder. She was radiant. And apparently speechless. When she recovered she thanked me for singing, said she never could have been so brave and, curling back into Jules' arm, smiled and looked like she hoped this moment would never end.

I didn't want to break the delicious tension hanging in the air from the final notes I'd sung, but I felt silly just standing in front of them. The chair seemed too far away so I sat down on the edge of the coffee table, my knees brushing theirs. I leaned in to get a kiss from Jules...