Maybe he looked feminine because of the heavily shaded drama of the upper lids and the natural smoky lining beneath the tender blue eyes that were swept only rarely by long wet lashes that he dabbed often with tissue he kept folded in his pocket. His voice was velvet and clear, his enunciation crisp, commanding attention. He had an ear for notes and he wore platinum half-notes on each long lobe.
They never made small talk. He was there to teach and her mother was paying both of them for her to learn how to play. She nearly always came to lessons hungry because she had stayed on the soccer field until the last minute, which made her fidgety and impatient. Sometimes she forgot to turn off her cell phone and when it rang her teacher squeezed his eyes tightly and grimaced as she swiftly ceased the call.
Her mind raced to her unfinished list, her stomach growled. She did not hear his description of some composer's style, the lifetime of sorrows he endured while creating his masterpieces. It didn't matter the day, or the composer, or what lifetime of sorrows, or what masterpiece...it seemed she was forever drifting away from the lesson.
And it seemed her blind teacher was forever bringing her back with his canned request: "Try to concentrate on the metronome."
Written for The Mag: Mag 146 that inspired with the above photo prompt (Indestructible Object, by Man Ray, 1923).
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