Though I started out of rather morbid curiosity—six months of torturous cello lessons when I was twelve long ago proved my utter lack of musical inclination—it has turned out to be surprisingly fun. I’m definitely not talented, or even good at playing by any means, but messing around on that old, probably out of tune piano provides a welcome change from the world of historical academia.
And hopefully tonight, a distraction from the looming threat of Todd and whatever hell a date with him would unquestionably prove to be.
Pulling the battered stool out and settling myself at the keys, I swipe open the tab for the online piano lessons I’d left open on my phone. Real musicians everywhere would probably be cringing right now if they could only see me as I balance the device on the piano’s sheet music stand, but I don’t have a printer of my own, and anyway, there doesn’t seem to be much point in wasting paper when this works perfectly well.
My most recent success on the piano, of which I have to admit to being insanely proud, is managing to plunk out a rather choppy, simplified rendition of the overture of Swan Lake. It’s always been one of my favorite pieces, and now, as I curl my fingers over the keys and begin the familiar melody, the challenge of trying to get the notes right does what I’d hoped, taking over my thoughts completely.
I’m about halfway through, just approaching the part where the piece first begins to shift, transforming from hauntingly plaintive to something wilder with a touch of darkness, when a sound from the vacant apartment next door catches me off guard, making my fingers slip into a discordant clunk of noise. Rich and complex and magical in a way I don’t think I could ever accomplish, not even if I practiced for a hundred years, the sound of a second piano drifts through the thin wall, echoing back a stunning reimagining of what I’d been attempting to play.
It takes me a good second or two longer than it should take any reasonable human to remember that, after two weeks of being neighborless, I’d heard the unmistakable sounds of someone moving in next door earlier today.
And whoever they are, my new neighbor is apparently a real-life virtuoso.
I can feel the telltale flush of embarrassed heat creeping up into my cheeks as the impulse to stop playing grips me. What right do I have to stumble through a kiddy version of Tchaikovsky when I’m less than five feet away from someone who can not justplayit, but transform it into something new and breathtakingly unique so apparently effortlessly?
If I were face to face with whoever’s playing like that, I know I’d never have the balls to keep going.
I am not face to face with them though, and maybe because of the fact that I can’t deny I’m every kind of cliché introvert nervous about having to find someone to take out on a date to keep Alex, and by extensionTodd, off my back (I bite back a shudder as I realize how unfortunate that metaphor was) I’m totally unwilling to let my inner recluse win this time.
Never mind that this is just about the least sociable stretchof the definition ofinterpersonal interactionever.
The first few notes I try are hesitant, but a moment later, Mystery Neighbor’s playing slows a bit, giving me the space to work my amateur contribution in beside their beautifully flowing music. More easily than I’d have imagined, definitely all thanks to the other half of this little impromptu duet, our playing falls into sync, and by the time the last notes of the piece hang in the air, I’m grinning.
Then awkwardness seizes me. What am I supposed to do now? Say something through the wall? No, that would be weird as hell. Go out into the rain, trek through the connecting alley and up the stairs to knock on their door to introduce myself? Not a chance. Not only does that seem even weirder than calling out through the wall, it would also be really intrusive.
Whoever my new neighbor and duet partner of the evening is, they’ve just moved in. They don’t want some awkward stranger coming and knocking on their door in the dark.
And so, as quietly as I can, totally aware that sneaking away from the wall between where the two of us are, like I’m trying to hide, is probably the weirdest of all the options I’ve come up with, I do precisely that. Practically tiptoeing, I creep away from the piano, back to my chair where I attempt to content myself with good old Henry and his religious turmoil.
I can’t say it works especially well.
The weekend and the first half of the week pass in a frustrated blur of attempting to focus on my research with even less than usual success. Not surprising, given thethreatening specter of Todd hanging over my shoulder at every turn.
I’d stocked up on groceries Tuesday afternoon before forcing myself to face the task of trying to decipher digital copies of some extremely faded documents from a mass witch hysteria event in 1427 that led to accusations against over half the inhabitants of a small town in Lincolnshire. The script on the documents was nearly impossible to read, faded and tiny and, per usual for the time, rife with highly creative spelling. In the end, all I really succeeded in doing was giving myself a headache so massive that, when I roll out of bed on Wednesday morning, about two hours later than I usually get up, the best I can manage is a halfhearted effort to organize my notes.
After absently staring at my laptop for the remainder of the morning, I finally concede defeat.By now, it’s pushing noon, and the restless frustration of having accomplished precisely nothing is hanging around me like a thick fog.
My head gives a vicious pound, probably made worse by the fact that I didn’t bother to make myself coffee this morning before trying to jump into work. In a moment’s snap decision, I flip shut my laptop, shove it in my bag, and, without bothering to change out of the especially tatty but especially comfy sweater I’d thrown on in preparation for an antisocial day at home, I’m on my way out the door.
3
Jesse
After a solid week of rain, the afternoon sky is the crisp, palely bright sort of blue that only a Seattle sky can be this time of year. When the clouds decide to clear out enough to let it show through, of course. After how cold it’s been, it’ll still be a couple weeks before leaves start opening on the trees that intersperse the buildings, and the air is definitely nothing that could be called warm. Still, there’s a sharp cleanness to the chilly sunshine, even here in the city, that makes me glad to be out.
Coat, sweater, scarf, and all.
Considering how gorgeous the day is and the fact that my favorite coffee shop, Upshot, is only six blocks north, in the transition space between the U District and the more upscale Ravena neighborhood, I set out in pursuit of a latte that will hopefully calm, if not banish, the pounding in my head.
The first building I pass is my own. A slightly shabby white two story that still looks more like a single-family home than not, despite the pair of rather rickety stairs scaling either side of it to the second floor.
Lightweight white curtains—a generic and easy choice—cover the windows of my half of the upstairs. They’re probablynot the most private, particularly at night, but I highly doubt there’s anyone who has nothing better to do than stare into my apartment to check out my boringly average silhouette against those curtains.
I can’t help the flutter of curiosity that stirs in my stomach as my eyes travel from my own windows to those of my next-door neighbor. Apart from the hours spent giving myself the worst damn headache I’ve ever had, I have to admit that I’ve occupied a lot of time over the last few days wondering about my new neighbor.
To my uncalled-for disappointment, the windows next to mine are curtained in heavy, dark drapes. There’s not a chance of getting even a little glimpse of Mystery Neighbor.
Since our surprising little duet on Saturday night, I’ve been treated to a half dozen more jaw-dropping performances.
