Gray

Dear So-And-So,

It is of the utmost importance that you do not lose/give away/misplace/throw away/burn/eat this letter (and while you're at it, don't use it as origami paper or a coaster, as folds and coffee rings will do it no good). Believe me when I say that your very life depends on the survival of this letter. Think I'm joking? We'll see who's laughing when a wolf devours the sun.

Now, as I'm sure you're aware, I have recently taken up piano lessons with a Mr. H. (the name which the letter stands for has so far gone undiscovered; I refuse to give up, however) who is a wonderful piano teacher. Honestly, I am learning much more from him than I have from any other music teacher whom I have graced with my "natural talents". I enjoy his lessons very much and I expect that they will continue.

HOWEVER:

I cannot bring myself to put any sort of trust in this man and I am writing you this letter in order that you should do the same and be wary in his presence. I cannot honestly tell you the reason for my suspicions. It could be his silky charm and obvious physical beauty. Or (more likely) it could be that my grandmother is under the impression that he is, in fact, The Devil. Yes, that's right; The Devil himself. The one who went down to Georgia (probably). Now, while I do not believe this for a second, as I am not superstitious or religious in any way, shape, or form, I always listen to what my grandmother has to say. She may be old, but she's wise, you know?

Anyway, as it is, heed my warning. DO NOT TRUST HIM.

I think that will be all for now.

Sincerely (but not love, as I am not so self-centered),

Tawny (Yourself) From the Past



Seattle is shit. And I don't mean faux-grunge, Hollywood-badass shit; I mean real, honest-to-goodness, ratty, shitty, shithole shit. Don't get me wrong: I'm in love with the idea of a city filled to the brim with hipsters and starving musicians and corporate folk and coffee-drinkers and the city itself couldn't fit my mold any better than it does. That doesn't mean it isn't shit.

People come to see the Space Needle. Well fuck me, and I thought they came for the hobos on every other street corner. Yes, that's correct; homeless bums begging for money and food, only to be ignored by tourists and corporate folk. And you know, that's shit. If I have a dollar in my pocket or an apple in my bag, I'm going to give it up. Because that'll help rid the Seattle of the shit (right, and Superman is just around the corner, saving a cat stuck in a tree).

Seattle can be pretty, if you take the time to ignore all of the shit; at least, that's what I hear.

Personally, I think that the shit makes it kind of worthwhile and real.

But it should change.



As always, I was late. It wasn't my fault, though; it was traffic and my dog needing to be fed (what the hell, right) and losing my keys and the homeless man living in my car taking his sweet time to leave. Things just get in the way, and there's nothing that can be done about them.

Mr. H. wasn't upset when I arrived at my piano lesson seventeen minutes later; he never was, though. In fact, he rarely showed emotion - at least, in my presence. He rarely got upset, even rarer did a smile touch his lips. I didn't mind his apathetic attitude very much; it was rather refreshing amidst a sea of emotive people.

I hated referring to my piano teach as Mr. H. He wasn't any more than five years older than me; granted, he was more sophisticated and more put-together, but was he superior? Did he deserve a title? I didn't think so.

I immediately began apologizing to my piano instructor:

"Listen, I'm truly sorry for being late, there were just things I had to do and a homeless man and -"

"Sit down," Mr. H. replied calmly, pointing to the part of the piano bench that he was not occupying. I didn't argue, as I found that there was no need. As always, he wasn't angry and as always, my apology was irrelevant and only wasted time. So I sat next to him, placing my fingers on the ivory keys.

"Don't touch it yet," Mr. H. commanded and my fingers flew from the keys as though they'd been scalded.

"Why not?" I braved a question.

"Listen."

He set his fingers on the keys and began playing; it was something familiar, but I didn't know what it was called. Most songs that he played were like that for me. Regardless, it was inhumanly beautiful the way he played the piano. Though, I felt that way whenever anyone played who could play as expertly as Mr. H. could.

It was several minutes before Mr. H. ended his piece and took his hands from the instrument. My ears were still filled with the melody.

"Wow," I breathed, "That was really-"

"You, Tawny, will never be able to play that," he told me simply.

"Are you trying to psych me out?" I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at my teacher, "Because it won't work. I know how the whole mentor thing works and-"

"No," he interrupted, "You will never reach that level of expertise." I let his words sink in for a moment, because he was being serious and I knew that. But how could anyone be so directly cruel? Or maybe he didn't mean to be; maybe he just saw something I couldn't see.

"Well, fuck," I grimaced, "There go all my dreams of playing at people's funerals."

"Aren't you angry?" Mr. H. raised an eyebrow at me.

"Why bother?" I shrugged, "The way I see it, I should feel sorry for you."

"For me? Why?"

"You're so socially inept that you go around telling people they suck at things that they want to be good at. Talk about softening the blow," I smirked, "I mean, goddammit. I want to play the piano like no one else. But then you come along, and you just ruin that for me. Is that an insult toward me or is that saying that you're a terrible teacher? You tell me."

"Some people just don't have 'it'," Mr. H. smiled a little, "You don't."

"It? That's so cryptic."

"Isn't it?"

We shared the tiniest smile with each other, so tiny that it almost didn't exist. But it did, just for a second. The air was silent between the two of us for a good two and a half minutes, before I finally broke it.

"So, are you going to teach me or what?" I demanded to know.

"Yes, let's begin today's lesson, shall we?" Mr. H. clapped his hands together and began showing me where to place my fingers on the keys.

Sometimes my lessons started like that: like something particularly deep that meant something. But it didn't. It was just something to pass the time.

Because honestly, I hated the piano, but I wanted to be good at something.

And I hated the Mr. before the H. But I didn't hate Mr. H.