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Five o’clock. Time to sweep the last customers out of the store, souvenirs in hand, and call it a day. By the time Nate and I finished straightening the shelves, sweeping the floors and balancing the registers it was just after 5:30. I left him to lock up and I headed off to the men’s dorm, stopping by the refectory to get some fruit and rolls. At my room I changed into my swim trunks, threw a baggy pair of shorts over that and tossed a towel into my bag with the munchies. The weather was humid and close, so an early swim for two seemed indicated. But when I checked the calendar I saw that Sandi was scheduled for the Bolling jazz suite, so I gave her a mental delay of game penalty and grabbed a tape player and some tapes as well.

I wandered over to the concert shell and found a seat in the big middle. A couple of 12-year-olds were playing a saxophone reduction of the Gershwin preludes, notable more for the audacity of the concept than the execution, and I took a few minutes to scan the program. Sandi’s group was third on the program, then the Vivaldi concerto for four violins and the last movement of Schubert’s Trout quintet.

After the Gershwin came a woodwind quintet arrangement of the Candide overture, better realized even if I’ve heard that overture a thousand times. The audience applauded as the piano and trap set were rolled out on stage, and the trio took their places. The flutist sent the first strains of cool jazz floating out into the muggy August air. I enjoyed watching her play -- the way she got into the rhythm, her upper body swaying with the music. Her legs were long and strong-looking, cleanly defined thanks to the camp shorts she was wearing, and the stiff cloth of her shirt only hinted tantalizingly at the curves beneath. I can’t say much about the pianist, some guy sporting a Van Dyck beard. Then, of course there was Sandi. It’s always a joy to watch her at work. Think Tito Puente, only younger and with curves that move delightfully as she shifts and bounces from one drum to another.

This was a fun piece at any rate; you could see the audience smiling and getting into it. Claude Bolling wrote four jazz suites, but I’ve always liked the one for flute and jazz piano the best. I took a bathroom break when it was over, and returned to my seat for the Vivaldi. Two of the violinists were college-age girls and the other two looked like high school seniors in jean shorts and crop tops; I was enjoying the visual aspect of the performance as much as the musicianship. Sandi slipped into the seat next to me midway through the second movement and we gossiped quietly until the performance was over.

The concert closed with the Trout quintet. As the melodic strains of Schubert rolled into the woodland behind the concert shell, I leaned over and kissed her soft lips lightly. “Enjoy the performance?,” she asked. “Always -- and I liked the music too,” I joked. She poked me in the ribs, then held my hand on her leg as we listened to the music. I felt the warmth of her bare skin under my palm, and squeezed her a couple of times, lightly.

After the concert, we made our way across the quad past the now-quiet art building. Sandi stopped to peer into one glazed window; there was a long-standing rumor that some of the art students had unapproved “private” modeling sessions after hours. The room was dark, though, and we continued on down toward the woods with her arm laced through mine.