The Piano Teacher's Method: Lesson 1

Lesson 1

I stand outside the door to the music studio for what seems like forever. Fidgeting, I smooth my navy dress over and over, trying to iron out every crease. My dress is modest--knee-length, high-necked... I spent a lot of time picking it out. I guess I have a thing about my clothes and how much they should reveal. I usually try to look unassuming, but still, clothes have a way of clinging and hugging certain areas. They always do. No matter what I wear, features stand out. I hate it sometimes. My friends think I'm crazy. They say I should be using my assets to my advantage, but that's just not me.

I take a breath, summoning the courage, and knock three times--soft, almost giving me the option to change my mind. Then...

The door opens fast. He answers.

Tall, his broad shoulders filling the open doorway. He welcomes me with a smile and says, "Hello, are you Petra?" He's an older man. Balding, but not with a shaved head. The hair that is left is kept short and neat, reminding me of my movie-star crush Jason Statham. The fine grey stubble of his beard outlines a strong jawline. He is dressed neatly, in a buttoned-up shirt and sweater. I think to myself, the only thing missing would be if he was smoking a pipe. He exudes a sense of charming maturity. Whenever my friends tease me about my modest dating life, it usually then follows with a discussion of the type of men that interest me. I tell them the typical things a 28-year-old might say about guys my age. But secretly, this is my type. A tall, mature, older gentleman. Not the boys I've heard yelling, "Hey honey, can I get your number?" when I walk down the street, but the men that call me honey and mean it.

"Oh... um... hi," I say, my voice small and thick with accent. "You are... Mr. Donahue? The piano teacher?"

I shift from foot to foot, clutching my bag like a life raft. My English is good. I've been in America for seven years now, but whenever I'm nervous, my accent comes out.

"I am Petra. We texted? About lessons?" I say with a shy smile and a quick glance up. "I hope I'm not late. Traffic here is... crazy."

Lingering in the doorway, I wait for him to ask me in, trying to hide my nervousness.

"Yes, come right in," he says.

I step inside. The music studio is a rather large room. It has an old air about it. The smell of wood and coffee hits me first. As I enter, my eyes scan the room. Bookshelves full of scores on the walls, a tall wide window in the middle providing all the soft light. A desk tucked away in one corner with more music scores, and the focal point--looking huge and scary--a grand piano front and center.

He waves me toward the piano bench. I nod, whispering "Thank you," and slip past. Our arms almost brush each other's. I sit on the very edge of the bench, back straight like I'm at an interview, my hands tight in my lap. Dress pooling around me.

He sits on a stool nearby and begins by asking questions. His voice is deep, calm. "So, Petra, how long have you wanted to learn piano?"

Glancing up, then down at my twisting fingers. "Um... since I was a little girl. In Bulgaria my grandmother had an old piano, but no money for lessons. I just listened sometimes. Now in America I think... why not? Life is short, yes?"

My accent made "yes" sound like "yez." I bite my lip, worried I sounded dumb.

He continues with more questions. What are my favorite pieces? Have I had any experience playing piano? I answer short, my voice quiet.

"I know very little. I only learn things off YouTube. Some 'Für Elise', but... I love listening to Chopin Nocturnes. They make me feel..." Trailing off. I search my English for words to describe the way some music can make me absolutely melt. I feel my cheeks blush. "...soft. Inside," I say.

I quickly look up for his reaction. His broad shoulders distract me. I drop my eyes again. My heart beats loud. I'm sure he can hear it.

"Sorry if I talk slow," I mumble, almost into the keys. "When I'm nervous, my English hides from me."

I shift on the bench, bringing my arms up and crossing them over my chest without thinking. Then I quickly realize the change of position has pushed everything up and out and now my dress is tighter, exposing more of my curvy assets. I uncross my arms fast. Mortified. I quickly say,

"What... what's first, Mr. Donahue?" in a small voice. "I want to learn. I promise to try hard."

He begins by explaining the basics--five-finger patterns, C scale. Voice patient. I listen, repeating words quietly to help myself understand.

"Okay... thumb on C, index on D... like this?" I put my fingers down, pressing the keys. Notes wobbly but audible.

He leans in to show me. My eyes are magnetized by his hands.

Strong, big, solid. The veins on the back of his hands twitching as his fingers move. Lifting, pressing, releasing in a fluid motion. Perfect. I can't look away. So controlled. So powerful. Effortless.

Heat climbs up my neck. I swallow hard. I force my eyes back to the keys. But no use. My mind has slipped away. I begin picturing those hands somewhere else. Moving, pressing, exploring in the same careful way, but no longer on piano keys. Those fingers on my skin, tracing slow lines, pressing just enough to make me...

I blink hard. Horrified. No, Petra, I think. This is a piano lesson. He is your teacher. Stop...

I shift again. My thighs squeeze under my dress, trying to keep the warmth now low in my belly from traveling lower. My breathing becomes shallow. I hope he doesn't notice. I tell myself, stay focused Petra--think, notes, keys, fingers, throbbing... No, listen, thumbs on C, think of anything but his hands...

"Um... like this?" My voice smaller, shaky. I fumble the third note. "Sorry... I got distracted a second."

His face calm, focused. Hoping he doesn't sense the storm developing inside me. My lips part, press together. Forcing a shy smile.

"You make it look easy," I say, my accent thick. "Hands so sure. Wish mine moved like that."

My words come out a little more breathless than I meant. They hang in the quiet air. I look down, pretending to study the keys.

"What's next?" my voice whispers.

He instructs me more--chords, rhythm. He says, "I'm going to give you a practice list of things to work on." His handwriting is neat, deliberate. I watch the pen move in his hand, his fingers gripping it firmly but relaxed. I feel a spark again.

He finishes writing, his voice calm. He says, "We have a good start, Petra. Take things slow, use even pressure. We will build on this next week."

He looks at the clock. Almost an hour gone.

"It looks like we are out of time," he says. "Same time next week?"

I'm not sure whether I feel relief or disappointment. Relief that I didn't fall apart and embarrass myself, or disappointment that I didn't fall apart and embarrass myself. But whatever the case, for now I have to pull myself together.

He stands first, towering beside the bench. His broad chest moving further away as I turn to get up. For a split second I realize I am eye level with his belt buckle, and my mind begins to wander. Would I need to pull it through hoops to unbuckle and then would I have to unzip or unbutton his pants too... Get a grip! I say to myself. No. Stop. Petra, right now.

I try to stay professional. He gives me a polite smile, with his hand out to shake. Showing no sign that he noticed me flustered. No idea that inside, my mind just ran me through the detailed process of how to take those pants off and then...

I shake his hand and say,

"Thank you, Mr. Donahue. This... was very good. I learned more than I expected."

"I will practice every day. I promise." My voice fading almost into a whisper.

I grab my bag, clutch it again in front of me like a shield. Not ready to leave, my eyes scan your tall frame filling the doorway one last time. The notepad with your neat handwriting against my chest like a treasure. The door clicks shut behind me. I pause in the hallway a second to catch my breath.

Lesson over. Already. But my mind won't stop.

Alone now, I slip further. His voice low, rougher now, controlling: "You seemed distracted today, Petra. Tell me what's on your mind... or would you like to show me?"

I step out into the cool February air, the fantasy lingering. Deep down I know I won't erase it completely before the next lesson. Not tonight. Maybe never.

I pull my coat tighter, walking to the car, already wondering how I can be more professional for next time... or how long I can pretend that my mind is only on the piano.