At lunch, his friend sat down across from him.
“So? Did you talk to her?”
“A little.”
“Just you two?”
“Four of us walked back together.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I thought maybe you were alone.”
He opened the wrapper around his sandwich.
“What’d you talk about?”
“Music.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you get her number?”
“No.”
His friend laughed.
“That’s what you should’ve asked.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then next time.”
He didn’t answer. He took a bite. The recital had been three days ago. He still remembered what she had said about her mother, and the red ribbon.
It looked good. He’d managed to say that then. Thinking about it now made him embarrassed.
“When do you see her again?”
“Wednesday.”
“Then talk to her again.”
“Yeah.”
On Wednesday, he arrived a little before her lesson ended. Mélancolie was coming through the door. The recital was over, but she was still playing it. When he went in, the teacher lifted one hand in greeting.
He nodded and sat in the chair by the wall. She was dressed the way she always was. No red ribbon today. The piece ended.
“You’re still playing that?” the teacher asked.
“A little longer.”
“You really like it.”
“I finally got it where I want it. I don’t want to stop yet.”
She closed the score and looked over.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She picked up her bag and stood. You’re still playing Mélancolie. He almost said it. Then she looked at the clock.
“Sorry. I’m in a hurry today.”
“Okay.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
She left. The teacher picked up a pencil from the top of the piano.
“On time today. See? I can do it.”
“Yeah.”
“I can be responsible when I want to.”
He sat at the piano.
“How was the recital?”
“I didn’t mess up.”
“That’s your review?”
“That matters.”
“It does.”
The teacher smiled and opened his music. He put his hands on the keys. After the recital, he hadn’t needed to plan every line. Today he couldn’t get one out.
At home, he opened his notebook on the desk. He wrote one line of homework, then stopped. He took a sheet of white paper from the drawer.
I wanted to talk to you more after the recital.
He stared at it, then added another line above it.
Sorry for giving you a letter out of nowhere.
He set down the pen. He pictured her sitting at the piano that day. Then he kept writing.
I thought you were amazing when you played Mélancolie.
And your mom’s red ribbon looked really good on you.
He read it back. For a moment he considered crossing it out. He left it.
Every time he saw her, he thought he’d say something before she left. Most weeks, he got as far as hello.
I always think I’ll talk to you the next time I see you, but then I don’t, and more time just passes.
He wrote one final line.
Next time I see you, I want to talk.
He folded the paper in half and slipped it into the inside pocket of his bag.