Read Online Nocturne by Charles Sheehan-Miles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Sheehan-Miles
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startled!”
I brushed off the question. “It’s nothing. Please continue.”
“How about we dance instead?”
I suppose I knew that was coming. Karin and I had been out on several dates, virtually all of them venues I had selected. The Opera, the symphony on one of my rare nights off, elegant dinners. For this date, I’d asked her where she wanted to go, and she’d selected salsa dancing. Not something I normally did, but I suppose if one is dating, you must make some compromises. And, the music was good, after all.
We moved out to the dance floor. Thanks to my mother’s insistence when I was a child, I’m not a bad dancer, though it’s not something I particularly enjoy or seek out on my own. I put an arm on Karin’s waist, took her left hand in my right, and we began to dance. I swung her around on the floor, and as she laughed, my eyes involuntarily fell on Savannah Marshall again, in that red dress, with her boyfriend’s hands inappropriately sliding down her waist and too low on her back. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. Did that young man have no culture at all? I turned with Karin, so aggressively she almost stumbled, so that my back was to Savannah. But my thoughts lingered on the narrowness of her waist and the way the bodice of her dress hugged her breasts.
Annoying thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts, considering she was a student. A student who was out on a date with her boyfriend.
The band slowed down, and the couples on the floor moved closer together. Karin folded herself into my arms, nestling her chin against my shoulder. She was pressed fully against me, and we swayed slowly with the music.
“Gregory … ” Her whisper was right in my ear. I squeezed my arms tighter around her, because that seemed all the response necessary.
I sighed a little as Savannah and Nathan swung into view again. They were appallingly close, and his hand was resting just on the top of the curve of her ass. She was truly a remarkable young woman. And probably deserved someone a lot better than Nathan, who was little more than an overgrown boy. I almost let my mind run to the thought of her in bed, and my body involuntarily responded.
I tried not to freeze, because Karin noticed. And pressed herself against me, tighter. “Gregory?” she said.
“Yes, Karin,” I murmured.
“Let’s go back to my place?”
Gregory
I checked my watch. 4 p.m. I was late. I hated tardiness. It showed a lack of respect. But today it was unavoidable. I’d spent the last three hours grading papers for music theory class, which I shouldn’t have been teaching in the first place. Once I started something, it was difficult to quit. And it was my luck that at 3:30 I’d pulled the next paper off the stack.
Savannah Marshall.
I want to be clear. I’m a fair instructor. Some students think I’m too harsh, too demanding. But this isn’t a liberal arts community college for those who desire to enter the fascinating world of cosmetology or small business finance. This is the premier conservatory in the world, where we train musicians who will go on to the top of their fields. I would do my students no favors by coddling them and giving them false illusions, which would only be shattered by harsh reality when they left the confines of these walls.
That said, her paper presented a dilemma. On the one hand, it displayed a level of brilliance and sheer power that was rare in students her age. On the other hand, it was a muddle of ridiculous assertions. Instead of technique, she wrote about feelings. Instead of placing the music in its proper context as a work of sublime art, she wrote about its historical context and how it represented the people and relationships involved in its composition.
In short, she understood nothing I’d been teaching. Or worse, she understood it, and dismissed it.
At 4:01 p.m. I scrawled an F across the top half of the cover page. I knew as I wrote it that it was harsh. Heavy-handed, even. But,
I brushed off the question. “It’s nothing. Please continue.”
“How about we dance instead?”
I suppose I knew that was coming. Karin and I had been out on several dates, virtually all of them venues I had selected. The Opera, the symphony on one of my rare nights off, elegant dinners. For this date, I’d asked her where she wanted to go, and she’d selected salsa dancing. Not something I normally did, but I suppose if one is dating, you must make some compromises. And, the music was good, after all.
We moved out to the dance floor. Thanks to my mother’s insistence when I was a child, I’m not a bad dancer, though it’s not something I particularly enjoy or seek out on my own. I put an arm on Karin’s waist, took her left hand in my right, and we began to dance. I swung her around on the floor, and as she laughed, my eyes involuntarily fell on Savannah Marshall again, in that red dress, with her boyfriend’s hands inappropriately sliding down her waist and too low on her back. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. Did that young man have no culture at all? I turned with Karin, so aggressively she almost stumbled, so that my back was to Savannah. But my thoughts lingered on the narrowness of her waist and the way the bodice of her dress hugged her breasts.
Annoying thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts, considering she was a student. A student who was out on a date with her boyfriend.
The band slowed down, and the couples on the floor moved closer together. Karin folded herself into my arms, nestling her chin against my shoulder. She was pressed fully against me, and we swayed slowly with the music.
“Gregory … ” Her whisper was right in my ear. I squeezed my arms tighter around her, because that seemed all the response necessary.
I sighed a little as Savannah and Nathan swung into view again. They were appallingly close, and his hand was resting just on the top of the curve of her ass. She was truly a remarkable young woman. And probably deserved someone a lot better than Nathan, who was little more than an overgrown boy. I almost let my mind run to the thought of her in bed, and my body involuntarily responded.
I tried not to freeze, because Karin noticed. And pressed herself against me, tighter. “Gregory?” she said.
“Yes, Karin,” I murmured.
“Let’s go back to my place?”
Gregory
I checked my watch. 4 p.m. I was late. I hated tardiness. It showed a lack of respect. But today it was unavoidable. I’d spent the last three hours grading papers for music theory class, which I shouldn’t have been teaching in the first place. Once I started something, it was difficult to quit. And it was my luck that at 3:30 I’d pulled the next paper off the stack.
Savannah Marshall.
I want to be clear. I’m a fair instructor. Some students think I’m too harsh, too demanding. But this isn’t a liberal arts community college for those who desire to enter the fascinating world of cosmetology or small business finance. This is the premier conservatory in the world, where we train musicians who will go on to the top of their fields. I would do my students no favors by coddling them and giving them false illusions, which would only be shattered by harsh reality when they left the confines of these walls.
That said, her paper presented a dilemma. On the one hand, it displayed a level of brilliance and sheer power that was rare in students her age. On the other hand, it was a muddle of ridiculous assertions. Instead of technique, she wrote about feelings. Instead of placing the music in its proper context as a work of sublime art, she wrote about its historical context and how it represented the people and relationships involved in its composition.
In short, she understood nothing I’d been teaching. Or worse, she understood it, and dismissed it.
At 4:01 p.m. I scrawled an F across the top half of the cover page. I knew as I wrote it that it was harsh. Heavy-handed, even. But,
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