Nocturne(46)

Unusual because two months before, I’d walked by the practice rooms late in the evening at the conservatory. I’d heard her playing before I saw the door to one of the practice rooms cracked, just enough to let the music out. She’d been practicing it.

I recognized the notes, of course, but it wasn’t one I’d played before. A flute-cello duet. Later that evening I’d gone home and practiced until the music became part of me.

Now, she adjusted her music stand then looked at me with a quick smile, quickly gone. I nodded, encouraging her. Despite myself, I found myself take in a sharp breath as she raised the flute to her lips.

Six notes, repeated twice, from the cello. Two measures, rising arpeggios, slightly dissonant, and as I played them she took a breath, her back straightening, arms riding slightly in the air, and then she began to play the melody as I continued the bass rhythm underneath. I’d played this part through a hundred times by now and knew it as intimately as any music I’d ever played. So, while I did not divert attention from my own playing ... I watched her, making slight adjustments to match her volume and pitch—which was impeccable—as she began to play the fanciful, almost playful melody.

To my surprise, I found that the longer we played together, the less I had to think about it. It became effortless. I knew this music by heart, and it seemed she did too, and her eyes moved as she played, focusing on me, then away, then back. They were liquid, huge, and as her body swayed slightly forward during a particularly difficult run, I caught my breath because it was as if she was speaking to me in a private language only we knew. The room had somehow narrowed, only the two of us, and the music between us.

I don’t think I’d realized before just how beautiful Savannah Marshall was. It’s not that I’d never noticed her … I’d observed her dirty blonde hair which she usually left free and wild, her large brown eyes, the dimples that sometimes appeared on her cheeks when she smiled. Her free and loud laugh when she found something amusing. The curve of her hips, which swayed as she walked, the swell of her breasts. I’d seen all of these things. And felt a tiny scar on her bottom lip as my tongue swept slowly across it.

I’d also seen her mind: quick witted, incredibly intelligent, opinionated, talented, brilliant. Her talent, her intellect, surpassed that of the vast majority of students or adults I’d known, and it was breathtakingly attractive.

And then, there was the music. The beautiful sound of her flute drifting down the hall of the practice rooms was commonplace in the quiet moments of my mind. Even three years ago during her audition she’d shown poise, talent and practiced skill that surpassed virtually all of her peers.

But here? Sitting across from her in the semicircle of our peers on the faculty, our eyes occasionally met, softening, bridging the distance of what had been a tempestuous relationship. Here, the tendrils of music emanated from us both for the first time, winding like a braid, the threads tightening together, faster, more in sync, beautifully wound up into something much bigger than the separate cello and flute parts that each of us played alone.

As we reached the crescendo I looked into her eyes and found her looking right back. I sucked in a quick breath, trying to keep it quiet while my head felt light, my hands now playing the notes on the cello on instinct. Her face was flushed, eyes wide and watering, and I felt as if we had moved closer together in that room. Our bodies were the same distance apart as they were when we’d started, but something had changed between us. She hadn’t simply just become my musical peer. There was something more humming in the vibrato between our bodies.

I almost stumbled when she shifted the melody, changing the rhythm and dynamics several times on the fly. My brows pulled together and I adjusted the baseline, watching her eyes closely. She met my eyes ... then had the nerve to wink at me. Against my will, I found myself grinning as I adjusted to her change. We continued from there, playing the song, but with playful adjustments that suited the light mood we’d created.

As I drew out the final measure, the final note from my cello, I was momentarily at a loss. She took a deep breath, lowering her flute to her side. I looked at her red tinted cheeks, her full, passionate eyes, and I surrendered to it.

The music.

Her lips.

I wanted her.





Savannah


My cell phone rang as I got ready for our second to last day with students. I nearly jumped out of my skin in excitement as I saw Nathan’s name pop up on my screen.

“Hey you!” I shrieked into the phone.

“Hey, doll. That’s quite a greeting. Summer’s going well, I take it?”

I could tell he was wearing his best dimpled smile.

“It’s been amazing, Nathan. So much more than I expected. The workshops were intense, but the students were great. I’ve missed you, though.”

He sighed, long and heavy. “I know. I’ve missed you, too. It’s just been so—”

“I get it. I really get it. No need to explain.”

Nathan and I had spent most of the summer texting here and there, but hadn’t had much time to talk on the phone. I was busy with the Institute, and he was settling into his new Chicago apartment and starting rehearsal with the symphony. He was practicing extremely long hours and, for Nathan, I was impressed. He knew as well as I did how rare it was for someone right out of school to get a seat with one of the Big Five, and he did. He was determined to keep it and developed an incredible work ethic seemingly overnight.