Etude 2: Andante Delicato

If you read this post earlier, you'll probably just have to read it again... I filled in the missing sections and some bits inside the existing paragraphs, so I figured it was easier just to post the thing in full. As usual, hit the "Read full post" link to get the whole thing.

Etude 2: Andante Delicato

When Sarah awoke the next day, it was raining again. Rain streamed down the windows of her room, and the patter of the raindrops on the roof was a subtle rhythm of sorrow. She yawned and stretched, her back sore from an undefined lump in the mattress. The clock read 9:04 AM; there was still an hour to her next class, and half an hour before her alarm was supposed to go off. She lay in bed for a while before deciding that she probably wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Oh, maybe I can get a real breakfast for once... That would be nice. There've been precious few nice things happening to me lately.

...

In a short while, she was up and heading for the dining hall. There was no wind now, although it was still cold. Damn, I forgot my gloves again. Oh well... The dining hall itself was warm and nearly empty -- its breakfast hours were almost over. There was still plenty of coffee, of course, and tater tots, and scrambled egg that was somehow not cold and not too greasy. After a glance at the sausages and the congealed grease at the bottom of the tray, she decided to skip them. I feel like I should have fruit or something to make it healthier... Well, potatoes are vegetables, and ketchup is made from vegetables, so that should count.
There was nobody she recognized at the tables, so she picked an empty one in the corner and sat down. Yeah, I don't really know any morning people. And the ones I do know aren't breakfast people. At least I don't have to try to make conversation. Then she saw someone she did recognize -- the punk from yesterday. And he was heading for her table. What? Why's he coming here? I don't know what to say to him!
"Excuse me, can I sit here?" His voice sounded strangely refined, especially for someone wearing ripped biker leathers held together by safety pins.
"Uh, um, okay. I guess." She tried her best to look at her eggs and not at his nose ring, which was what she remembered most clearly about him.
"I'm Armand, by the way." He'd bent his head down to try to meet her gaze. She tried to look away, flustered.
"I'm, um, Sarah."
"I saw you at Professor Mel's lecture the other day." She couldn't identify the tone of his voice -- not that she was particularly good at doing that.
"Yes, yes you did."
"The first time I saw you, I completely discounted you. But seeing you today, I think I might have missed something."
That made her look up. "What?" Please, just let me finish my eggs, that's all I want...
"Yes, I can see it in your eyes... They're not the same as they were yesterday. Some subtle change..." She panicked as he continued to scrutinize her face, as if he were trying to memorize it. "Yes, that's it." He stood up with his tray. "Pardon me for my intrusion." And he walked off.
What was that about? Suddenly, Sarah had no more appetite for her eggs.

Economics went about as badly as she thought it would. Everyone turned in the homework, then Professor Bates discussed the hardest problem -- which she of course had gotten completely wrong. After that, he launched into some unrelated anecdote that was meant to be amusing but wasn't. She dozed off again. She woke up sometime in the middle of the lecture, with Professor Bates scribbling diagrams on the board and saying something that had to do with economics. She of course had no idea what was going on, but scrambled to take notes anyway. Before she was done copying what was on the board, he started erasing it and went off into another of his stories. This one sounded vaguely related to economics, she thought it might be an example of some sort. Something about apple sellers and orchards. But I don't need to know how many children they have and where their wives want to go for vacation, thank you very much. Can't he ever get straight to the point, she thought. She was getting sleepy again, and her eyes weren't focusing too well. The professor became a dark blur, moving back and forth across the front of the lecture hall as his voice droned on about the benefits of apples versus pears. The dark blur that was the professor expanding, becoming a wave of darkness that engulfed the hall. It advanced slowly, almost tenderly, before reaching her and wrapping warm soothing tendrils around her. She woke when the lecture ended, having dozed off without realizing it.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and she was alone in the small corridor of practice rooms. Most piano classes were scheduled at this time, so the respective students were with their teachers and not in the practice rooms. She was grateful that she would be alone for this; she hated having anyone around when she practiced. She slipped into her favorite room, the one furthest down the corridor. It was a little dimmer than the others, but the piano was not as out of tune as the others. Once inside, she let herself relax for the first time that day. Here, at least, she could have peace.
She carefully went through her little ritual -- opening the piano, adjusting the stand, fiddling with the position of the sheet music until it was just right. She started with scales and arpeggios, warming up her fingers. They stumbled at first, still stiff from the cold outside, but their movements soon grew fluid and they raced lightly over the keys. That done, she began to play her real pieces. She usually felt a certain pleasure in the way her hands and fingers moved, cooperating smoothly, but today there was something subtly wrong. The notes sounded cold and dead; not at all like the lively brook they were meant to imitate. She stopped and played some chords, listening carefully. The piano sounded like it was in tune, the chords dense and true. She tried another piece, one of Chopin's Etudes. The notes were like ash falling from the sky: cold and precise and lifeless.

After the disheartening piano practice session, Sarah had little appetite for dinner. She tried to force herself to eat, with no luck. Just haven't had much appetite recently, she thought. At least I didn't have to deal with Matt at lunch. Well, he's the one who wants to see other people. It's no surprise he couldn't be bothered finding me at lunch.
"Hiya, Sarah." The sudden voice made her look up.
"Oh, hi Paul," she said, recognizing the unkempt mop of brown hair that belonged to Maggie's boyfriend.
"You look so lonely over here. Want me to join you?"
"Okay, I guess." She stabbed a pea with her fork and held it up, examining it.
"I heard about you and Matt."
"Oh." She rotated the fork so she could see it from all angles. It didn't look any more appetizing.
"How are you doing?"
"Um, okay. I guess. I don't know, it's just... It's kind of like I'm too tired to really feel anything."
Paul made a comforting sound. "You know, that's just as bad."
"I guess."
"Are you going to eat that pea, or are you trying to see if you can get it to fly off the fork?"
She realized she'd been waving the fork rather vigorously. "Um, uh, I'm really not that hungry."
"You should eat. Seriously."
"I'm not hungry."
"Maggie's worried about you."
"She is?" That was surprising news.
"Yes, she is. She knows how much you've been sleeping -- or rather, not sleeping."
"I guess."
"You look really worn out."
"Okay."
"Do you have much homework tonight?"
"Professor Mel assigned her usual hundred pages of reading, and there's more for Victorian Lit."
"You can skip Victorian Lit. I know you've already read everything by Austen five times. And just skim the Mel-agomaniac's stuff. You need the sleep more."
"But I'm really behind in her class."
"So get a little more behind tonight, and catch up tomorrow. After you've had some sleep."
"I guess I'll try." Paul didn't looked unconvinced, but he left her alone after that.

She went back to her room. Night-time was when she worked best, or so she told herself. Night-time, at least, meant quiet and solitude and a cozy darkness with only the light of a small lamp to work by. No-one to watch over her shoulder, to nag her about her failures in a high, piercing voice. Working at night was a habit she'd picked up at home, out of self-defense, and she'd simply continued it when she left. The only problem, of course, was that night-time meant there was nobody awake to help her.
I wish Professor Mel didn't assign so much reading, she thought, rubbing her eyes. She tried to concentrate on the book, but the words blurred for a moment before she could get her eyes to focus. I don't think they're supposed to do that. I must be too tired to keep reading. Maybe I should take a break for a bit. She got up from the chair, rubbing her aching back. I think I need better posture. She lay down on the floor, her back relaxing as it rested on the flat surface. Mm, that feels good. I'd better not fall asleep like this, though. Maggie would probably trip over me in the morning. She turned her head, looking at the heap of books and papers by her desk. At one point they'd been arranged in neat stacks, but that had been a very long time ago. I should clean up my side of the room. And not procrastinate so much on my homework. And I should do the reading more often, and sleep more, and not fall asleep in class... Should, should, should -- is that all there is to life? She had a sudden vision of herself years in the future, homeless because she couldn't get her act together long enough to get a job, starving, dying. Yeah, that sounds about right. I can't finish anything I start, and I even put off starting until the last minute... That's going to endear me to my employers. Not that I'll have any... What on earth does a Literature major do, except teach? And I already know I'm no good at teaching. I wish I'd never let myself get talked into this. But then, it's not like I'm good for anything else.
She did fall asleep on the floor, dozing lightly and without dreams.