Nocturne by Charles Sheehan-Miles

cello suite. I had to learn it. Immediately. Because when he put his bow in hand and brought it to the strings, he transformed into something transcendent.
    I can’t explain what was going through my head as I’d thumbed through the files and files of transcriptions, not stopping until I found exactly what I was looking for. I guess … if that song, those notes , could pull emotion out of a man like Gregory and transfer it directly to the center of my gut … I wanted to feel it, too. The way he did. I wanted to get in his head, even if for only a minute, to feel what he felt from that side of the stand.
    But … why?
    “Ugh,” I groaned, deciding to just pack up my flute and head back to the dorm to try to sleep.
    “Savannah?” a voice from the other side of the door startled me. It was my roommate.
    “You scared the shit out of me, Marcia!”
    “Sorry. Girl, how many times do I have to tell you to shut these freaking doors? Lock them, too, when you’re here by yourself this late at night.” She shook a finger disapprovingly as I put my coat back on.
    I sighed. “Sorry, Mom .”
    “Plus, didn’t you say Gregory walked in on you practicing once? Do you really want to risk another run-in with him if you can avoid it?” She laughed, and I did, too.
    “I guess not.” I shrugged, but felt my heart rate pick up slightly when I realized the day he walked in on me was the day I stopped shutting the door all the way.
    I ran a finger over the knuckle of my index finger, tracing the path Gregory’s thumb had taken the week before. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to get a hold of reality. And fast. He was my professor. I was his student.
    But, reluctantly, I caught myself staring at my fingertips, and recalling how the muscles of his hands felt beneath them.
     
     
    Gregory
    Music is communication. It’s emotion. It’s passion and love and hate and expression.
    Savannah’s words rolled through my head all the way home, echoing, over and over again, as if she’d somehow punctured my very identity. If all you care about is mechanics and theory, then you’re in the wrong field.
    I was in a foul mood when I unlocked the door to my house and entered the living room. I marched into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, opening a bottle of water and gulping it back.
    How dare she. This was the reason I didn't want to teach. Right here. In my rage, I found myself repeating myself. How dare she.
    I paced back and forth. I needed to practice. I was supposed to be meeting Karin at eight for dinner. I needed to clear my head and get something done. But my mind kept circling around that girl , and it wouldn’t stop. Not just her arguments, which had not only the ring of truth, but reflected very badly on me. My mind turned to her eyes. The graceful, almost ethereal way she moved. The sway of her body and the sound when she played the flute. The music.
    I closed my eyes. Because I had no choice. I needed to get a grip on myself. She was a student, for Christ’s sake. Incredibly gifted, yes. Passionate about her music. No question about that. But she was a student. A distraction.
    I was a cellist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. I was at the beginning of what promised to be a remarkable career, a career rivaling those of Casals or Rostropovich, and the last thing I needed was distraction. What I needed was relentless focus. On my music. And nothing else. That was the reason I had no personal life. That was the reason I’d shuffled the blind boy off to a different teacher.
    I picked up my phone and sent a text message to Karin, cancelling our date for the evening. I turned the phone off before she could reply, tossed my jacket over the couch, and then unlocked the fireproof case for the Montagnana. As always, I opened the case in reverent silence. I took out the bow, tightening it then applying a fresh layer of rosin. And I began to play.
    I began with Bach, the simple, yet beautiful piece which first brought me to