The Girl in the Painting

Seriously. I don’t have kids of my own yet, but I send out nightly prayers to all of the moms and dads out there who have to spend the night under the same roof as some of these heathens.

The cursor on my Word doc flashes on the screen, and I put my head in my hands and watch the way a few loose pieces of my brown hair rise up into the air with the whoosh of breath that leaves my lungs.

Why did I think this was a good idea again?

I find “Für Elise” in my iTunes Library and hit play. If anyone can knock my ass into gear, it’s Beethoven. And if he doesn’t work, I’ll make friends with Chopin or Erik Satie.

Usually, music is my saving grace in everything.

Horrible, awful day? Music.

Need to file my taxes? Music.

Started my period? Music. Music. Music.

It holds the key to my mind, my emotions, and my heart.

But, apparently, someone changed the locks because not even that is helping today.

I’ve been working on these lesson plans for my music classes for the past three hours, and I’m at a point where I might resort to banging my head against the wall. The vital clause in my lease contract that states my landlord, Betty, would lose her shit if I put a hole in the drywall is about the only thing that holds me back.

Literally. It says that. Renter agrees to hold $1000 in escrow pending a damage inspection at move-out. Landlord does not agree not to lose her shit.

Fine. I made the last sentence up, but if you’d met Betty, you’d understand.

“Mornin’, babe. Coffee ready?”

I pause my music and squint my eyes at my boyfriend Matt as he walks into the kitchen. “Just brewed a fresh pot about twenty minutes ago.”

“Fantastic,” he says, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and shuffles toward the kitchen counter. “Need a top off?”

I glance down at the nearly empty mug beside my laptop. “Yes, please.”

It will be my third—or is it fourth?—cup of coffee of the day, but it’s a necessary evil when you wake up before the sun.

Sadly, I’m not normally such an early riser. I prefer days where circadian rhythm is the only clock I have to answer to, but my job doesn’t allow it.

Today, though… Today, I was already awake.

By the time the clock struck four, I threw in the towel, took a shower, and attempted to start my day.

Lessons plans that don’t even really need revamping have been switched and reorganized five times, and I’m well on my way to a world record in coffee consumption.

But avoiding your insanity is much easier than facing the crazy train head on.

My boyfriend’s hazel eyes sparkle as he grins at me from across the white marble-top island of my kitchen. Matt is what most would call classically handsome. With sandy blond hair and kissable lips, he reminds me of a Fight Club Brad Pitt, but replace the bad-boy vibes with softer lines and a kind face.

Without another word, he fills my white mug, and the steam from the hot brew rises and disappears into the air.

Before Matt can add sugar or cream to my mug, I hop out of my seat and finish the job.

He laughs and bumps my hip with his as he pours himself a cup. “You don’t trust me?”

I shake my head on a smile. “Not with my coffee, I don’t.”

Too much sugar. Too much cream. Too much sugar and cream. No matter how hard he may try, my boyfriend of just over a year can never seem to get my coffee just right.

As I settle back into the seat in front of my laptop, he laughs off my teasing criticism and tops off his cream and sugar with a little dribble of coffee.

I’m not sure why he even bothers.

“What’s your schedule like today?” he asks, leaning against the counter and taking a sip from his mug. “Any lessons after school?”

Not only am I music teacher for a little private school in the Bronx, but I also teach after-school music lessons. Piano, clarinet, guitar, you name it. My dad is a musician himself, and life with him readied me to play just about anything.

“I should be done around five or so.”

“Dinner later, then?”

My ears perk up, and my tongue lolls out like a puppy. “The little Mexican restaurant across the street from your office?”

Matt’s office is in Manhattan, my job is in the Bronx, and with my apartment all the way in Brooklyn, I spend a large part of my days in the Bermuda Triangle of hellish commutes. I’d damn near take a train to the moon for a chance to eat at the little Mexican restaurant by the name of El Torro, though.

Hands down, the best guac and tacos that have ever graced my taste buds.