The blank sheets of manuscript were sitting on a shelf alongside all the old brass tunes and piles of music I had ignored since Auralye had shown more interest in playing songs she knew. I picked up the pad of blank staves, staring at their black lines, trying to get back those thoughts I had at home – the falling fourths passing through octaves. Rain. The sound of a harp.
I sat down at the table picking up a pen and sketched a few intervals imagining how impressionistic chords might unravel, and the harp beginning to double up instead of remaining single notes for the trumpet to play over.
A compulsion to look up across the barely lit darkness to the other side where the practice rooms were, thinking about the last time I had touched her flesh, held her in my arms after foolishly accusing Raine of having drugs on him, only days ago; attempting to get something out of Auralye as though she knew.
I turned back to the manuscript and sketched in a held semibreve on E-flat that lingered over the fractured chords in the harp beneath. It fell, suddenly, to the D.
What did you get?
I got a definite answer, a definite feeling that there was something there, that there was a woman inside who wanted me – wanted me – but who I liked also, despite the teenage dialect that occasionally seeped through.
A whole-tone scale started falling in the trumpet accompanying the fourths from the harp, sometimes in consonance, sometimes in dissonance; sometimes consenting, sometimes dissenting; but always in conversation with the dialogue they were expressing.
I didn’t just like her though, it was more than that. It always had been.
The pen suddenly dropped out of my hand as the falling notes were forgotten about. I got up and walked across to the practice rooms, opening up the same door that I had pushed Auralye back through; standing in the darkness breathing in the space as though she was there also, tantalising me with her short skirt, luscious smile ready to press themselves against the trumpet, and then suggestively make her way over to me and casually lay a finger down on my leg. I wanted her to be there with me now, not just as a part of my thoughts, but as something real, something that I could hold again. No, not just something, but a woman who wanted me just as much as I wanted her. A chance to make something of a relationship despite our age difference. There was no way she would say no to that. It was in her eyes – those beautiful emeralds that stole my gaze from me. Every feeling she harboured for her music teacher, I just had to let go of all that bullshit responsibility that everyone expected of me and accept her, accept that whatever happened it would be just the two us, her and I, lovers despite what anyone else said.
My mind was made up.
I sat down at the table picking up a pen and sketched a few intervals imagining how impressionistic chords might unravel, and the harp beginning to double up instead of remaining single notes for the trumpet to play over.
A compulsion to look up across the barely lit darkness to the other side where the practice rooms were, thinking about the last time I had touched her flesh, held her in my arms after foolishly accusing Raine of having drugs on him, only days ago; attempting to get something out of Auralye as though she knew.
I turned back to the manuscript and sketched in a held semibreve on E-flat that lingered over the fractured chords in the harp beneath. It fell, suddenly, to the D.
What did you get?
I got a definite answer, a definite feeling that there was something there, that there was a woman inside who wanted me – wanted me – but who I liked also, despite the teenage dialect that occasionally seeped through.
A whole-tone scale started falling in the trumpet accompanying the fourths from the harp, sometimes in consonance, sometimes in dissonance; sometimes consenting, sometimes dissenting; but always in conversation with the dialogue they were expressing.
I didn’t just like her though, it was more than that. It always had been.
The pen suddenly dropped out of my hand as the falling notes were forgotten about. I got up and walked across to the practice rooms, opening up the same door that I had pushed Auralye back through; standing in the darkness breathing in the space as though she was there also, tantalising me with her short skirt, luscious smile ready to press themselves against the trumpet, and then suggestively make her way over to me and casually lay a finger down on my leg. I wanted her to be there with me now, not just as a part of my thoughts, but as something real, something that I could hold again. No, not just something, but a woman who wanted me just as much as I wanted her. A chance to make something of a relationship despite our age difference. There was no way she would say no to that. It was in her eyes – those beautiful emeralds that stole my gaze from me. Every feeling she harboured for her music teacher, I just had to let go of all that bullshit responsibility that everyone expected of me and accept her, accept that whatever happened it would be just the two us, her and I, lovers despite what anyone else said.
My mind was made up.
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