The roaring ovation that followed Tchaik Five had us all feeling festive. According to the long-time orchestra veterans, this was one of our best opening nights ever. Certainly the viola section was in peak form.

But my mind had been elsewhere since I dove down the Colette Zhang rabbit hole last week. Colette and I exchanged some small talk during rehearsals, but that's it. Maybe we were destined to be casual acquaintances, nothing more.

Tonight, she was a vision—black sleeveless dress with a lace top, silver dangle earrings, with those pink streaks in her hair blazing like fire. She looked like she'd stepped out of a dream.

But for two and a half hours, as she sat just a few feet away, one thought kept resurfacing: she's off limits. She might as well have been in a different time zone.

I waited with Gary at a whiskey bar a block from Schnitzer Hall as some other musicians trickled in. We reminisced about my first days in Portland last year, how Gary took me under his proverbial wing, how he and Marquice let me stay in their guest bedroom for a couple of weeks as I got my bearings. How they helped me find an apartment, look for a car, and feel like I belonged in my new city.

My social coach: Check in on him, too. That's what friends do. "You met with your birth mother yesterday, right?" I said, taking a sip of my Diet Coke. "How did that go?"

Gary laughed as he swirled his whiskey. "She's... nice," he said, his expression guarded. "Kind of flighty, and not all there. But nice."

There was certainly more to the story, but a thunderous voice drew our attention. "Did we nail it, or what?"

'Subtle' isn't in Terrance Crowther's vocabulary, but that's what we love about him. Built like a viola-playing linebacker and twice as loud, Terry is the life of any party—especially if it includes eye-rolling puns, beer, or both. People may stereotype classical musicians as a stodgy, uptight bunch, but if my group of friends is any indication, we're anything but.

As Terry exchanged greetings with everyone at the table, a few more joined our ragtag group. And among them was the one I'd been trying—and very much failing—to get off my mind.

Colette slid into a seat a few spots down, close enough to exchange polite smiles, but too far to break through the cautious distance we'd maintained since the party. A dull ache flared up in my heart. Casual acquaintances, nothing more.

As the rest of the table submitted their drink orders, Gary and Terry huddled, keeping their voices low. Terry spoke, drawing everyone's focus like only he could.

"As some of you know, we didn't get around to playing 'Never Have I Ever' at last week's party." Terry's face puckered into a mock-sad expression. "So, after consulting with Gary here, we've decided that we're going to play it tonight."

Great. And here I was thinking that I dodged a bullet. Have I mentioned that these ice-breaker games make me very uncomfortable?

"So without further ado, grab your drinks, and let's get started." Terry hoisted his mug of beer. "I'll go first. Never have I ever... been intoxicated."

I was the only one at the table not to take a drink. Of course. I may occasionally drink beer or wine, but I have no desire to get drunk. I tried to avert my eyes, but I noticed Colette take a small sip of what looked like a Cosmopolitan.

People called out prompts instead of going around the table. So at least I wouldn't have to come up with one.

"Never have I ever dated a musician." Everyone got a good laugh out of this one. Even one of my whopping two ex-girlfriends was a harpist. Colette and I both took a drink.

"Never have I ever used a fake ID." Colette took a drink. I didn't. Big surprise.

"Never have I ever been in a wedding party." Colette didn't drink, while I did—I was a groomsman in Becca's wedding last summer.

Terry took another turn, getting personal this time. "Never have I ever known true love." My breath hitched as I surveyed the table, convinced all eyes would be on me as I'd surely be the only one not to drink. I considered drinking anyway, but enough people here were well-versed in the romantic misadventures of Randall Lipsky to call me out.

But my own eyes were glued to the person three spaces down and across the table. Here it comes, the gut punch all over again. I covered my face, peeking through my fingers like I was watching a horror movie...

But Colette's Cosmo stayed on the table.

Wait a minute. What?

She has everything. She's bold. Confident. Magnetic. Funny.

Not to mention she's... rather attractive.

Yet she's never been in love. One of life's great mysteries.

We played about six or seven more rounds, until Terry drained his beer and won (or lost?), but I'd tuned out by then. None of it made any sense. She clearly has someone special in her life. But she isn't in love with him, or anyone else, ever?

Colette was nothing if not full of surprises.

************

What did we do before everyone had a smartphone?

Among their many other uses, they provide perfect cover for clandestine observation. Each time Colette glanced my way, I'd shift my eyes back to my phone, pretending to read something or type a message.

She started out vibrant and animated, but as time passed, her demeanor shifted. She began playing with her phone more, sipping her cocktail less frequently.

Now, she looked distinctly uncomfortable, massaging her temples and rolling her neck like she was trying to loosen a persistent ache. She'd pushed her half-finished Cosmo to the side, in favor of a glass of water she drank mindfully.

Almost instinctively, I switched to empathy mode. I hope she's okay. Maybe I should go check on her.

But before I could overanalyze things, Colette was moving in my direction. Our eyes met, and she offered a pained half-smile.

"Hi Randall! Are you thinking of leaving soon?" She paused to rub her temples again. "Could you drive me home? I have a pounding headache, and I don't want to deal with the bus. No problem if you can't—I totally understand."

She was clearly in distress. I've had my share of splitting headaches, so I knew what to do. There was no hesitation in my response.

"I'd be happy to," I said, nodding my head as if to say, 'I get it.' "Just give me a minute."

"Oh, thank you so much! I really appreciate it." Colette looked on the verge of tears. "Take your time, there's no hurry. And I can pay you for gas."

"Don't worry about it. You need to get home and rest!" I surprised myself with my firm tone.

A voice in the back of my head wondered, why did she ask me? But this was my moment—a chance to play hero, in whatever small way I could.

We left the bar minutes later, stopping at Schnitzer to retrieve our instruments. I carried both Colette's cello and my viola to the car without issue, even though she offered to take something—it's never a bad timefor a little chivalry. Colette lived a 12-minute drive from the concert hall, just enough time to have a nice conversation without things turning awkward or strained. If she was up for it.

We exchanged smiles, but not words; the headache likely had the best of her. At least I couldn't embarrass myself by saying the wrong thing. Right?

I'd nearly resigned myself to a quiet ride to her place—and just being grateful for her presence—when her ethereal voice broke the silence.

"So you've never been in love either?" she said, a grin pulling at her lips, her voice losing none of that sparkle.

She doesn't beat around the bush, does she? "Umm, no," I said as a dry, deadpan laugh followed. "You can't be surprised, can you?"

I glanced over at Colette as we passed a streetlight, its glow catching her luminous brown eyes perfectly and igniting the pink streak in her hair. She doesn't even have to try to be beautiful. "Actually, I am surprised." Her voice was soft but deliberate. "You seem like the kind of guy who gives his whole heart to someone. Like you don't do anything halfway." Her accent seemed especially prominent tonight, lending her words an almost melodious quality.

How strong was that Cosmo anyway? Not that I've EVER been flirted with to my knowledge, but that was tough to miss.

"Well, thank you," I said, trying not to sound dismissive. Again I appreciated the darkness—and my beard—hiding the red in my cheeks. "But the real mystery is you. I mean, you have a boyfriend. Aren't you in love with him?"

"I have a boyfriend?" she inquired; I could almost hear her eyebrows knitting. "I'm unaware of this development." I couldn't tell if she was puzzled, or she was playing coy.

"Umm... he's all over your social media," I said. "He's in the group shots with all your friends. You have your arms around each other. You made fried rice with him. That guy?"

I could feel her eyes narrowing on me, and then my chest tightened.

Oh, shit. Me and my big mouth.

"Were you stalking my Instagram?" Colette asked, her tone indecipherable. I didn't dare look at her. You had the beginning of a perfectly nice friendship, and you threw it all away. Nice job, dumbass.

"Umm... I... I'm..." I said, fumbling my words as my thoughts disintegrated. This is bad. Really, really bad. "I'm so, so sorry..." My breaths were short and clipped as a cold sweat crept up the back of my neck. Great. A self-induced panic attack.

I paused to take a breath before I laid it all out. "Gary tagged both of us in some pictures from the party last week," I explained, trying to save face, but probably in vain. "I know I shouldn't have, but I checked out your profile. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just... curious." I felt better coming clean, but the damage was done. "I'm so sorry. I never should have..."

"Oh, Randall," Colette said, her voice dissolving into a delicate laugh. "I'm not upset. At all." She gently set a hand on my right arm. Cue another implosion.

"You're not?" I was genuinely shocked. Relieved, but shocked.

"Not in the least," she said, her voice breathy. "In fact, I find it kind of flattering. And I may or may not have done the same thing with you." Well, this is kind of thrilling, I thought, a giddy sort of disbelief settling in my chest. What had she seen—my hours-long viola practice videos? Group photos from my board game meetup? There's no way I seemed half as interesting to her as she did to me.

Is there?

"In which case I would find it flattering, too. If you actually did it, of course."

Where did that come from?

Holy shit, was I flirting back? I've never flirted in my life. Did someone sneak rum into my Diet Coke while I wasn't looking?

Colette gave a soft chuckle. "And Randall?" she said, just this side of playfully. "That guy in those pictures, in the fried rice video? His name is Jimmy—he's my roommate, and one of my best friends." She paused before adding in a spicy whisper, "and he's very gay."

What I said next I almost didn't say at all. "So... does... that... mean... you're..." My voice trailed off, each word a battle against my self-restraint.

"Single?" She turned the word into a question, full of suspense and intrigue.

And her answer hung in the air like a live wire, daring me to touch it.

"One hundred percent."

Just when I think I have her figured out...

We were nearly to Colette's place, so her revelation didn't have much time to sink in. But beyond that, my head was filled with questions. What about her sister? What about her larger group of friends? And now that I knew about Jimmy, what was her... romantic history? You don't have Colette's mix of magnetism and beauty without one.

"How's your headache?" I asked, eager to change the subject more than anything. "I should have let you relax instead of talking your ear off."

"I'm the one who talked first. And besides, I enjoyed our conversation," she said warmly. Me too, Colette. Me too. "My headache's doing better, thank you. Just before we left, I took a couple Tylenol." She massaged the center of her forehead. "But it's still lingering, so... I guess I should get some rest."

"Looks like we're here." I pulled up to a modest two-story apartment building, still in chivalrous mode. No sooner had I put the car in park than I was at the passenger-side door, opening it for Colette; she made a motion toward the back seat, but I waved her off, carefully picking up the same cello case that had bumped into my head a little more than a week ago.

Colette and I walked in contented silence to the door of her first-floor apartment as myhead raced and my pulse throbbed in my ears. She turned to me, her eyes twinkling in the clear night sky.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate this," she said, her voice floating through the darkness.

And then she actually hugged me.

This wasn't some polite hug, tentative and hesitant. It was something entirely different—warm and genuine, unreserved and from the heart. I felt a real connection, however fleeting, as Colette's irresistible scent wrapped around me like silk, with its shades of vanilla and jasmine, its back notes of citrus. If paradise had a fragrance, this would be it.

"Anytime," I whispered, not quite able to find the right words, but somehow saying just enough.

Colette started to walk toward her door, before glancing over her shoulder. "Good night, Randall," she said, her voice evaporating into the night as our eyes met. "I'll see you Monday."

"Goodnight, Colette." We exchanged a final, lingering smile as she closed the door.

It was only then that I began to process what happened. Was this hug a gesture of friendship, or something more? 

No. Nothing 'more.' I knew better than to read into it—it was an appreciative gesture, not a declaration. She's kind to everyone. What makes you so special?

Still, the warmth of her touch lingered long after we parted. I wanted to hope, to dream, of something more, to prove my 'voice from a darker place' wrong. But I'm nothing if not realistic, so I knew I was fortunate to have her in my life at all.

The drive home was impossibly quiet, the silence closing in on me. I missed her smile, her laugh, the way her presence filled the space around her.

Normally, I'm fine being alone with my thoughts.

Tonight, though, I didn't like it. Not at all.

************

So Colette is unattached after all... what will Randall do with that bit of information? Their relationship certainly seems to be progressing, even if Randall's convinced they'll just be friends, nothing more. 

The video is of the closing minutes of Tchaikovsky's Symphony no. 5 (skip ahead to about 4:13 for the really good part ☺️), conducted by the charismatic and energetic Gustavo Dudamel. I like to think the Oregon Symphony brought a similar energy to their performance!