Hi Big Bro

First of all thanks so much for letting me live above your bar. And for letting me practice on your old Chickering. But I must confess, I don’t miss it, now that I have Penman’s Bosendorfer grand, not to mention his whole house. This house-sitting for my piano teacher seems to be working out. I wish his European tour would last more than the summer. Like forever. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about what will happen when he comes back. Maybe best if you don’t rent out that above-the-bar apartment. And don’t throw out that old Chickering. (If I ever become famous maybe it will be worth something.)

Not that practice, even on a good piano, is going to get me anywhere, so don’t count your chickens on the Chickering. If only I were ten again—then I could be a proper prodigy. But it’s ten years too late for that. I don’t think I’m up for any more competitions, either. I know you said the problem was the judges, not me, or rather not my playing. It was nice of you to say that I’m too cute, so the lady judges are jealous of my looks and the guy judges bend over backwards to avoid being accused of rewarding me for beauty of body and not Beethoven. Do you know any guys you could hire to throw acid on my face? Just kidding.

Before he left, Penman said we’d assess my future upon his return. I think that means he’s going to dump me as a student, which leaves me a career as a page-turner, or maybe playing hymns at the corner church, or maybe giving lessons to the neighborhood kids. Not too long ago he said I have plenty of technique but maybe I was missing a pigeon of passion. He meant smidgeon. “Your playing might be overly refined,” he said. “You mean I should play sloppy?” I said. “No, I don’t mean refined,” he said, “more like ethereal.” I said, “Isn’t ethereal good?” He said, “I don’t mean ethereal, more like prim and pussy.” He’d said pussy but he meant prissy. I bowed my head. “Virginal,” he said. Practicing 29 hours a day every day since I was six hasn’t left me much time for boyfriends. I barely have time to write these imaginary letters to you.

Before Penman left, after I’d agree to housesit, he told me to be on the lookout for the new piano bench he’d ordered. It was supposed to be delivered last week but things got foofled up. Foofled is his word, not mine. In fact, there’s the doorbell now, so I’d better go check.

Hi again. The piano bench is here, and it’s a beauty—so different from Penman’s old piece-of-crap stool. The seat is soft red velvet. I couldn’t resist. The moment I sat down I knew it was something special. I played something, the easiest piece I could think of. Easy or not, it was glorious. But the bench demanded more of me. I had to try the bench out bare-bottomed. I took off all my clothes. I played the piece again. Unbelievably sensuous and sublime. I could not play the piano any better, so I turned my back on the piano and played myself. My fingers knew what they were doing. I got lost in myself.

I almost didn’t notice you watching me. “Don’t stop,” you whispered. I didn’t stop. You moved closer. Closer and closer. And that’s when the real music began.