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“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be here. But I couldn’t find a practice room, and the door was open, and—”
    â€œYou . . . play the piano,” he says.
    I stare at him.
    â€œYes, of course you play the piano. Sorry, I . . . Who is your teacher?”
    â€œMrs. Lugansky,” I reply automatically. “My friend Plum calls her ‘Scary Russian Lady.’ ”
    His lips curl up in a hint of a smile. He has nice lips. And then I remember my dream from last night, and I have to force myself to think sad, serious thoughts— dead puppies, starving orphans, global warming —so he can’t tell.
    â€œShe used to be my teacher,” I add quickly. I really do have to stop propagating the Mrs. Lugansky lie. What if he asks me for her contact info so he can arrange piano lessons for his kids? Does he have kids? Is he married? He’s not wearing a wedding ring.
    â€œUsed to be?” he prompts me.
    â€œI’m, um, taking a break from lessons,” I lie some more.
    â€œI see.”
    He stands there, his expression inscrutable as he studies my face, then my hands, then the place on the keyboard where I left off. Am I in trouble? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, so I sit back down on the bench and reach for the quilted cover. I remember that I have his handkerchief in my pocket; will he notice that it’s missing?
    â€œYou’re incredible,” he says finally. He looks away, flustered. “What I meant was, you’re very gifted. But I suppose you’ve heard that many times.”
    Actually, no. “Thanks. Thank you. So, um . . . I guess you play the piano too?”
    â€œYes. I got my bachelor’s degree in piano performance. Have you thought about mixing up the tempo more in the first movement?”
    â€œMix up the tempo? Why?”
    â€œMay I?”
    Without waiting for my answer, Mr. Rossi sits down next to me and pushes the quilted cover aside. As he does, his tweed jacket grazes my bare arm. My skin tingles from the contact, and I want him to do that again: accidentally-on-purpose touch me. Although it was likely just an accident, and I really need to cut this out already.
    He raises and lowers his elbows, then closes his eyes. He smells like his handkerchief, except warmer, sultrier. He launches into the first movement—initially at tempo, then more slowly, then with a series of fits and starts in the form of ritardandos and accelerandos. His interpretation is decidedly more measured and melancholy than mine, and more passionate, too.
    He stops just before the shift to the second movement and turns to face me.
    â€œSo . . . what do you think?” he asks me.
    Our legs are almost touching. Should I inch away? Or stay where I am?
    â€œBeatrice?”
    He knows my name. After just the one class. I should correct him and tell him that everyone calls me “Bea.” But I love the way he says “Beatrice”—like a poem, and with that dreamy accent.
    Oh, right, I need to respond. “Yes! Sorry! That was wonderful! Really deep and intense and tormented.”
    â€œSchumann was in a great deal of torment when he wrote this part.”
    â€œWhat was the matter with poor old Schumann?”
    â€œPoor young Schumann. He was twenty-something at the time. He was in love with his piano teacher’s daughter, Clara Wieck. But Mr. Wieck wouldn’t let them be together.Schumann wrote a song for Clara called ‘Ruines’ because he felt that his life was in ruins without her. That song became the beginning of the Fantasy.”
    Oh my God, how romantic. But I probably shouldn’t say that to a teacher. “That’s insanely interesting. How do you know this?” I ask instead.
    â€œConservatory. You’ll see for yourself, next year.”
    Conservatory. I drop my gaze and study my nails.
    â€œAt Juilliard or Curtis or wherever you decide