She smiled, pleased and entirely unguarded.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but instruction and effort and the soft, imperfect noise of learning. I noticed how closely she listened, how seriously she took every adjustment. Some people treated lessons like entertainment. Kitty treated them like something that mattered.
“That was better,” I said after a short progression.
She exhaled. “It was?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “I didn’t think it would feel like that.”
“Like what?” I wondered
“Like I might actually get to a point where someday I might be able to play an actual tune,” she confessed.
I stood, pulling a guitar from the wall, casually picking at the strings as I sat back down on the stool. “Most things feel impossible right up until they don’t.”
She nodded slowly, thoughtful.
After a moment, she said, “The town is very excited about the talent show.”
I kept my tone neutral. “I heard.”
She glanced up at me. “You did?”
“Marjorie cornered me with a stack of flyers,” I said. “I agreed to help with sound on stage. I have some equipment I can loan and make sure things are set up properly.”
Her shoulders dropped in relief. “Oh. That’s good.”
The way she said it caught my attention and I wondered what she meant.
“It’s a lot,” she added, carefully casual. “Trying to make sure the talent show goes well.”
I nodded, already feeling something shift, though I couldn’t yet name it.
“Well, I’m sure the festival planning committee has everything under control. They did a really good job last year,” I said, keeping my voice even..”
She smiled faintly and looked back down at the guitar, fingers poised, uncertain again.
We returned to the lesson, but something had changed enough that I was aware of the space between us in a way I had not been before.
And for reasons I could not yet articulate, I suspected the conversation we were circling would not be as simple as either of us hoped.
Kitty tried the chord again, slower, and this time the sound came out clean enough that she froze like she didn’t trust it.
“There,” I said. “That’s the shape. Your fingers will complain for a while, but they’ll learn.”
“They already are,” she admitted, flexing her hand carefully. “I think snowboarding started a rebellion.”
“Snowboarding does that.” I reached for the small jar of finger picks on the counter and set it aside, then resisted the urge to tidy it again. “We’ll keep it gentle today. You’ll build strength without wrecking your wrists.”
She nodded and adjusted her grip. Her focus sharpened, and I watched the way she concentrated. She played the progressiononce more, then looked up at me as if she was asking permission to be proud.
“That was better,” I said. “You heard the difference.”
“I did,” she said softly, and her smile returned, small but real.
The room settled into that comfortable rhythm lessonssometimes found. Instruction, practice, and minor corrections filled the time.
