the balance of it.” I grasped her hand so that I almost completely embraced her from behind. “The bow should feel weightless. There. Good. Middle finger and thumb. That’s all you should use right now.”
“I know this. This is all first-year stuff.” Her defenses were down but I could tell this still frustrated her.
“Exactly. You think you know. But we need to start here.”
My arm moved out and in, mimicking the draw along a string.
“See. That. The pointer and pinky only provide direction. They aren't demanding or crushing. Let gravity help you,” I said.
Her head fell back against my shoulder in relaxation and then she went still when she realized it.
“No, shh. That’s okay,” I whispered, and she stayed in place.
We played an invisible instrument, our right arms traveling out and back in perfect tandem. We played the same piece of unheard music.
My left arm wrapped around her so that I grasped her left shoulder. “Now this is the neck of your cello. Place your fingers on me.”
Her fingers were tentative as they grasped my skin. “It’s too big.”
I swallowed with difficulty, briefly shutting my eyes against the barrage of images that accompanied that soft sentence.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s about balance again. Relax your grip.”
Her fingers moved up and down my forearm and a shudder I hoped she couldn’t feel ran through me.
“Your arm is much hairier than my cello.” A smile came across with her words.
My own smile followed, as always, without will when I was around her.
“Your thumb is flat. You should have a cupped hand, using the tip only. Keep your hand loose and it will travel distances faster,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
She grumbled but obeyed. Her fingers danced delicately up and down my arm. It was tricky but with our right arms still bowing, she played me perfectly.
Her scent and the unheard notes floated in the air around us. The soft sounds of our shared breath and rustling clothes filled the space. I joined her closed eyes and lived in this moment.
My instinct was right; together we would play beautiful music. She was perfect to play my piece.
Eventually, I started to pull away. When she made a sound of dismay, I said, “Stay like that. Don’t even open your eyes yet.”
I carefully led her back down to the chair. I replaced my arm with the neck of the cello, placing the bow on the string.
“Now, just play.”
She kept her eyes shut tight; her dark lashes fanned out against her pale skin. Her face was smooth in relaxation, and her cheeks flushed with color. Her mouth was relaxed and slightly open. She looked devastatingly beautiful.
She played the last piece we had been working on without being able to see the music. She was gifted, but somewhere over the years since camp she had lost faith in herself. She had been changed and filled with nonsense.
“Good,” I whispered. If she’d heard me, she made no sign. She wasn’t aware of anything outside what she played in that moment. As it should be. “It’s that space between the notes. Feel it. Touch it. The music is all around you.”
The music flowed from her. It wasn’t my piece of music; it was a snippet from the July show we were performing. She was perfection though.
She played and I sat on the bench of the piano listening, elbows on knees, fingertips steepled and my chin resting on them.
She played until she reached the end and when she did, she lifted her bow off the string and the last note hung in the air.
Several long seconds later she blinked into awareness. Her gaze moved around until it found me watching and listening intently. Her eyebrows raised in question.
I tried to speak, cleared my throat, then started again. “Better. Much better.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Remember that feeling when you play. Block out the years of mechanical lessons and tap into that feeling. Well done.”
A smile broke out on her face. Perhaps I could be a little more generous with positive feedback. She responded better when I showed her, taught her. I’d just grown so used to snapping and taking. That wouldn’t work with her.
She had me questioning so many things I thought I knew.
“Look!” Kim’s voice broke my attention.
She stood at the kitchen window, leaning over the sink, to look outside. How nicely she filled out her pants was of no interest to me. I cleared my throat.
“What?” I asked as I went to her side.
I was sore and tired. My stomach grumbled.