Piano Lesson

This is my twelfth contribution to:

He'd made me feel alive. And that was wonderful. But the obvious obverse? I now felt as dead as he. Shriveled up, closed off. Not wanting to engage with a World that had brought me eighteen years of joy, then a remaining lifetime of misery.

He'd told me to move on. To keep living. I'd said 'of course,' but more for his comfort than mine. I had no such hope. From the first diagnosis, to throwing dirt into his new home, I knew it was over for me. They say that there is someone for everyone. Well, I no longer had mine.

I'd kept giving the classes. There was no need really. The policies had paid out. I was comfortable, financially at least. But it was something to do. And a connection to what had gone before, my lost life. Also some of my customers, friends is how I thought of them, were ones in whom I had invested decades. Seen them grow. Seen their musicality blossom. Or wither, there were no guarantees.

Joe was one of them. Something of a lost soul, it had to be said. He'd been visiting me weekly for twelve years. Since he was thirteen. Joe wasn't like other people. Introverted. Awkward. Over-reactive. Sometimes seeing slights where none were intended. Misunderstanding less frequent praise. Often not quite getting the World, and least of all, its other inhabitants. I wasn't sure that either he or his Mom had ever sought a diagnosis. But his mind ran on different rails. He was just Joe. And I liked him.

And Joe was one of my successes. I was proud of him. Music may not really be able to soothe the savage breast, but it seemed to salve at least one savant. He was good. Good enough for concerts, for recordings. His dexterity on the keys surpassed my own with ease. Though his psyche would never allow him such public plaudits, he played just for me and for his Mom. A diamond buried under miles of mantle. But his music brought me joy, like few things did now.

And then today, maybe the wine was to blame. I'd been working through his cellar. Remembering good times. Shared moments. Perhaps I had poured a little too much into that last glass. Joe arrived. Punctual as ever. If he noticed my breath, he didn't comment. I sat next to him, feeling warm and fuzzy, as he flew through warm-up arpeggios, maybe more relaxed than was my wont.

An error! It was jarring. Not for most of my musical pupils, but for Joe? I came out of my alcohol-induced reverie and stayed his right hand. For some reason I found myself unable to release what I had seized. Joe's eyes were habitually downcast, but now he looked me steadily in the face, as I unsteadily returned his gaze.

"Miss..."

"Please, Joe, I've told you."

"Sorry, Miss." I let it slide.

"I was just wondering. Do you have a boyfriend? My sister has a boyfriend."

I began my well-worn, well-rehearsed explanations. That I had a husband, but no longer. Joe was having none of it. "But why? You are pretty. Prettier than my sister. And she has a boyfriend."

I realized I still held Joe's arm. I could I feel his blood pumping against my fingers. Real blood. A real person. The proximity. It had been so long. Maybe it was the drink, but I felt compelled to focus on one element of his words. "Pretty? Me? I'm forty-eight. And I know your sister. She is pretty. Me? Pah!"

"Not as pretty as you, Miss." Joe's voice was matter of fact. Like reading out a train schedule.

Pretty? I could kiss him. I was going to kiss him. I closed my eyes, and leaned forward. It had been too long.

A correctly executed arpeggio brought me rudely to my senses. Saved a middle aged woman from making even more of a fool of herself.

"That's better, Joe. Now the Debussy I think."

While Joe played, as excellently as ever, my head cleared a little. Thank God nothing has happened. What had I been thinking? But still Joe's words echoed in my mind, 'pretty.' Even at my age. Well, why not?

There was this guy. Persistent. Annoyingly so. Then clarinetists were in my experience. He'd suggested coffee, lunch, an evening meal.

As Joe brought life to Debussy's notes, I took out my phone and found his last message. I began to write a reply.