So what do we do now? she asks.
Whatever you want, but usually trading phone numbers means we’re planning to meet up soon.
Do you want to meet tonight? she asks.
My eyes widen at her message. It’s only a little past nine o’clock, but it feels too late and too soon at the same time. Late because we only have one night, and tonight is half over. Soon because I only just met her, and it’s almost good-bye for good. How about tomorrow night?
Sure, that works for me, she says.
I send her a link to a local bar. This place at 7?
Sounds good!
Great, I reply, and after a few seconds, I send her a smiley face.
We fall silent then. I want to keep talking to her, watch another movie, even if it’s this weird documentary again, but I don’t want to be annoying. And I don’t want to act like this is more than it is. That’s the beauty of it—that it’s nothing.
It takes restraint, but I don’t message her again all night.
SIX
Anna
The first thing I do when I wake up Saturday morning is check my phone for messages from him.
There aren’t any. Of course there aren’t. I’m not surprised. Really, I’m relieved. But I’m a little disappointed, too. Just the tiniest bit.
Still lying in bed, I read over our conversation from last night. That same giddy excitement fills my chest, and I smile as I bite my lip.
I did it. I met someone online, we talked, and then we set up a date. If I’m being honest with myself, it was kind of nice. He likes octopi! Better than that, I was able to be myself. I didn’t pretend. For once, I feel like I’m in control of my life. It’s a heady experience.
It took me forever to fall asleep last night because my mind wouldn’t stop. I should be dragging today, but I’m buzzing with nervous energy instead. The hours fly by.
Halfway through my practice time, when I find myself starting over again and again just like usual, I impulsively set the Richter piece aside and decide to try something else, like Jennifer suggested. Clearing my mind and taking a series of deep breaths, I set my bow to the strings and let the opening notes of Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending” sing.
This is my dad’s favorite song. He requests I play it on his birthday and whenever we have family events or his friends are over, so the notes are deeply ingrained in my muscle memory. I’m not sure which pleases him more—the music itself or showing me off to people. It doesn’t really matter to me. I just like making him happy.
The music slowly pours from my violin, fluttering erratically upward on changing currents of air. It transports me, so sweetly passionate that for a moment I get caught up in it. I forget time, I forget me. There’s only this beautiful feeling of soaring over vast fields of open green. And I realize I’m playing, truly playing.
This is the reason I breathe.
I hear it then. My timing is just a hair off. It’s been so long since I’ve played this song that my bow work is a bit sloppy. I can do better.
So I start over. It’s such a signature piece that if it isn’t just so, critics can be vicious. I won’t give them an opening. I can outmaneuver them. I can be more vicious to myself than they are, and in so doing, I will win.
Art is war.
It’s still not quite right, so I start over just one more time. I try harder to get the timing exact. And I hit it. The notes trill and climb like small wings beating on updrafts of wind. Only to snag. Not enough emphasis in that part.
I start over.
And I start over.
And I start over.
Until the alarm on my phone pulls me out, and I turn it off and stare blankly about the room. I’m back where I started. At the beginning. My throat aches, but I swallow the tightness away.
There was that brief moment when the music sang to me and I forgot to listen to the voices in my head. That’s something.