Page 21 of Unsupervised
Me: What’s a good dating app? Not for one night stands.
Dalton: God, you’re old
Dalton: Do you want like a serious dating website where you have to tell them your whole life story or an app that lets you meet people in the area? Because Meetcha is used for hookups and for old boring asses like you to court and woo women desperate to land a husband. You could start there.
Me: Fuck you very much. You’re older than me, asshole.
Dalton: Not at heart.
Me: I agree you’re mentally and emotionally stunted. Thanks for the info.
The app is simple and straightforward. It doesn’t take me long to fill out a profile and upload a couple of recent pictures. Just as I finish making my account, Dalton texts again.
Dalton: Watch out for chicks who only have a face shot on their profile. Guaranteed to outweigh you by two hundred pounds at least. Have you come up with a line for your profile yet? I have some suggestions.
I’ll bet he does.
Me: Thanks, I can handle it.
Dalton: You’ll be the only one handling it without a clever line.
Dalton: “Looking for the kind of girl I can take home to meet Mom but will blow me in the car on the way back.”
His response makes me laugh because I don’t doubt he’d use that. We’ve been friends a long time and I love the guy, but he has all the class of an overfilled piss bucket.
We exchange a few more texts before I realize I have somewhere to be.
* * *
Cooper’s Music Store is tucked into a corner of the shopping plaza, sandwiched between a beauty salon and a second-hand bookstore. The idea to learn to play a few songs on the piano for Grandma seemed reasonable at the time. Even talking to the head of the music department at work—who pointed me here and loaned me a small keyboard all while giving me a look you’d give a puppy—didn’t deter me from the idea. Now that I’m here, I feel completely ridiculous.
My dashboard clock says it’s now or never and the main thing that gets me out of the truck is my aversion to wasting other people’s time. There’s a piano teacher waiting for me and I don’t want to be rude by being late. Especially because I know I have the latest appointment available, so whoever it is probably wants this over and done with as much as I suddenly do.
I’m sure they teach on a piano here, and I wasn’t sure whether to bring my borrowed keyboard. Better to have it just in case was my thought when I grabbed it on my way out the door. I sling the keyboard bag over my shoulder, take a deep breath and head inside.
The music store is warm, inviting, and gloriously empty of customers. I’m not sure why I feel so self-conscious. I suppose because most people take music lessons as kids, not when they’re pushing thirty. A man sits behind the counter, re-stringing a guitar across his lap.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, looking up from his work.
“I’m here for a piano lesson.”
My shrug and sheepish smile is met with a nod, and he gets to his feet. “Your nine o’clock is here,” he calls through the doorway behind him. He gestures to the door. “Go on back. Second door on the left.”
“Thank you.”
The hallway is narrow and I’m careful not to bump the instrument against the walls. The door to the second room stands open. It’s not a huge space, but the upright piano against the wall tells me I’m in the right place.
The piano teacher enters in a rush, tucking a lock of very familiar hair behind her ear. Shocked blue eyes stare into mine, and I’m suddenly covered in a flurry of papers.
“Mr. Aldrich! What are you doing here?” Kelly exclaims, frantically gathering the stack of sheet music she practically threw at me.
Excellent fucking question. I once had the ass of my pants loudly split open when I bent over in front of a group of women in the bar, and I thought that may be the most awkward moment of my life but this may have it beat.
“You’re the piano teacher?” I clarify, though it’s obvious. She didn’t enter with sheet music in her hand to clean the place.
Her nod is cautious.
“I signed up for lessons.” A realization occurs to me. “Didn’t you see my name?”
