Page 12 of Broken Chords
“Um, what chord are you playing?”
She chuckles again, the sound carrying over the soft strains of the piano. “F minor right now.” She’s using the pedal, because the sound continues to float even as she plunks each note individually.
Playing it safe, I go for the root of the chord and draw out a low F. But she doesn’t stay there long, changing chords, and now my F is dissonant. I hang onto it for a moment anyway, enjoying the tension a little before I resolve it to an E flat.
We continue this way for a while. Consonance, dissonance. Suspension, resolution. Moving slowly from chord to chord, note to note. And it’s a different experience, a different connection than what we were playing earlier. I have to listen, pay attention, feel, and be totally present in what we’re playing. All my focus is on the sounds filling our tiny space and what Charlie is going to do next.
It’s intimate. Not sexual. More like sleeping in the same bed is intimate in a way that just sex isn’t.
I don’t know how much time passes as we play like this, enjoying this form of musical communication. I feel like I know her better after this than I would’ve if we’d spent all evening talking. Maybe I don’t know details about her past. But I know her soul.
We stop by some unspoken agreement, trailing off at the same time, sitting in silence until the notes fade away. I’m once again afraid to move, afraid to breathe, not wanting the magic of this to end.
Charlie stays still for several beats as well before scooting the piano bench back and standing up. She quietly closes the keyboard cover, removes the sheet music from the stand, and folds it down, putting everything in order for the next person to use.
The spell now broken, I loosen my bow and retract the endpin before packing up. Something of that spell remains, though, as we both go through the motions of putting our things away in silence.
After I’ve packed up, Charlie moves to the door and clears her throat. “Should we put the chair and stand away?”
I glance at them a moment, not wanting to take the time to do it, but knowing I should. “Yeah. Hang on.”
Setting my cello back down, I grab the chair and lift it, intending to put it in the hallway and drag it to the practice room while I carry the stand, but Charlie’s behind me, stand in hand. The practice room I took them from is now occupied, so I stick them in the next open one.
“Come with me to put my cello away, and I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Okay.”
Something has changed between us. Or maybe it hasn’t. But talking seems excessive right now. Our words are quiet, barely louder than whispers, as though talking in full voice would ruin the connection we’ve forged tonight.
Charlie keeps pace beside me as we head downstairs. For once, I don’t even feel like Gregor Samsa as I walk with my cello on my back. Gregor never had a pretty pianist walking next to him after the best date he could remember.
Once my cello is safely stored in its locker, we turn toward the door. I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her hand. I’m not sure if she’d welcome that or not. And I don’t want to overstep.
When we reach her car, she turns and looks up at me, her eyes shining under the lights in the parking lot, the sun long since down. “Thank you. I had a lot of fun tonight.”
“Me too.” I study her face, suddenly wanting to say so much more than those two pathetic little words, but unsure where to start. “We should do it again sometime.” I guess that’s something. Maybe a little lame, but it could be worse.
She smiles, her genuine smile, not the forced one she sometimes gives me. “I’d like that.”
A breeze picks up, ruffling her hair, and she shivers.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my hands are on her shoulders, rubbing her arms.
She sucks in a breath, but leans into my touch, her face still tilted up to mine, her expression soft, open. Inviting. Her lips are pink and shiny in the lamplight, slightly parted.
Acting on the same instincts I followed while we played, I bend my head to hers. Tilting my head slightly so that our lips fit together perfectly.
Her lips are soft and pliant under mine. And even as some distant part of me cheers that I’m kissing her (Dude! You’re kissing her! You’re the man!) I begin to move back. Before I can, her hands grip my arms, her fingers curling into my skin, pulling me close as she kisses me back. Harder than the soft, tentative kiss I started. My brain reacts first (She’s kissing you back!), and my body is close behind. Stepping in even closer, I wrap an arm around her, keeping the kiss going.
Her hands slide up my arms, no longer digging her fingers into me, simply holding on like I’m holding on to her.
When she pulls back, there’s a soft smile on her lips. “Same thing tomorrow?”
With a low chuckle, I release her. “It’s a date.”
