We wandered the gallery for a couple of hours through a drink or two. Tristan’s hand would often twitch at his side. I think he wanted to have his hand on me the entire time. Truth be told, I did too.
I agreed to having dinner in his penthouse apartment for two simple reasons. First, I wasn’t ready for this night to end. I’m having fun with a man that isn’t Lucas for the first time in ages and I’m enjoying myself. Secondly, I’m just not ready to say goodbye to him yet.
“Thai is perfect.” I’ve draped a thin, black jacket that I wore on the walk up over one of his chairs, but I haven’t taken a seat yet. It feels wrong making myself at home without him offering it first.
“Petal, I won’t bite you…yet. Please make yourself comfortable. My home is your home,” he says with that smile I see in my dreams. “ Would you like a glass of chardonnay? I have a bottle I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”
“Is this a special occasion?”
“I’m spending time with you. I find that special.”
My heart begins to race. How can this man be so disarming and intense but so gentle and kind? “Then yes. I’d like to join you.”
I know I studied his apartment when I was here earlier in the week, however, I think I could be here for days and find new things. He has the most spectacular grand piano in the corner of the living room. What I didn’t notice before is the elongated cabinet behind it that not only hides an extensive collection of sheet music behind glass, but if you lift the top, inside is a gorgeous violin that looks like it’s been passed down at least five generations.
“Is this for show or do you play?”
It’s a stunning instrument that looks nearly too perfect to use.
“My mother insisted that I learn to play an instrument, much to my chagrin,” he smirks when the cork pops out of the wine, “but I grew to love it. It’s something that I’m able to do when I need to chase demons away and painting just won’t do. I don’t do it often though, as you can imagine. My studio sees much more action than my violin.”
I thank him when he offers the glass of wine to me and I take a small sip. It’s crisp, dry, and absolutely delicious., “When did you first start playing?”
He’s standing so close to me now that our shoulders are nearly touching and he’s peering down into the case.
“I took my first lesson at five years old. My mother hired a young woman named Alana Franco to teach me. Five-year-old Tristan was enthralled by her. She’s probably the reason I paid attention long enough to gain the skill.”
“Loved women even then, did you?”
“Touché, Ms. Morgan. As a matter of fact, yes, I did. I stayed her pupil until I went to university. Then, I only played for myself unless my mother or Raissa requested a recital.”
He starts to look longingly down into the case. I can see the sadness beginning to bubble up once more. I know from experience it’s never too far below the surface. “Who’s your favorite composer to play?”
“The easy answer is Niccolò Paganini. His work is timeless and it’s still played by so many musicians today, but the harder answer is… no one. Sometimes, I just like to play what I’m feeling. Art is best when played or painted from the heart, be it bright red and full of love… or dark and hollow like some could say mine is.”
He tips his head back and drains his glass in one gulp before walking away from me, leaving me intrigued and wildly confused by him. He’s hot and cold. Kissing me in his bed one moment, whisking me away to art shows and delicately touching my skin, then he’s walking away from me like I’ve made him angry.
“Tristan?” I say aloud, turning around, away from the glass.
“Yes?”
“I think we need to have a conversation.”
“About what, love?”
“This.” I wave my hand between us. “With all of this and the… everything that this is or feels like it is, I’m not sure that I should be taking your class anymore. Should I? Aren’t there rules against coeds having wine and Thai food in their professor’s apartment at 10:00 p.m.?”
He sets his wine glass down on the table behind the right side of the enormous sectional that runs nearly the length of two walls. His stride back to me is purposeful and almost angry. “You want to quit? You won’t be saying that again. No one can give you the lessons you need to learn better than I can. No one.”
“See. That even feels like innuendo.”
“I assure you, Nora, you’re not a coed. You’re a nontraditional student who is exceedingly talented and should learn from the best. As for whatever this is between us, we do not have to worry about entanglements from the Board of Regents. There is no nonfraternization policy. As far as the University is concerned, when the time is right, we disclose a relationship then it is up to us until or unless a complaint would be filed.
“Complaints usually have to deal with abuses of power. I think we can avoid those types of entanglements altogether by making the playing field even. I’d like you to not only study under me, but I would like you to serve as my teaching assistant.”
“You’re… you’re offering me a job? Just like that? Doesn’t that have to be approved? I didn’t even apply for anything. This just feels… out of control.” I lean forward and rest my forehead on his chest. I don’t even mean to do it at first. My entire being is just seeking comfort, and he’s standing so close…
“I’ll handle the professional red tape.” He hooks his index finger under my chin and tips my head back until I’m staring up at him. “You’re bright, smart, and deserve the chance to show it. The additional income is icing… as well as being able to spend more time together without questioning gazes.”
“This is all so fast. We’ve gone from you watching me dance in a nightclub to me sleeping over in a matter of a couple weeks. I go to sleep thinking about you. I wake up thinking about you. I can’t think at all when I’m with you.” I freeze in his touch. “Shit. Did I just say all that out loud?”
I squeeze my eyes closed in embarrassment for a moment, but when I open them, I’m met with that dimpled grin that could make clothing evaporate with a snap of his finger.
“I’ve infiltrated your thoughts, have I? Would you like to hear a secret, Petal?” I nod. “You’ve infiltrated mine too,” he whispers with his lips just ghosting over mine.
“Don’t tease me. Not like that.”
“Do you think I’m lying to you, Petal? Come with me.” He offers me his hand openly. I take it without question. We leave our wine glasses behind, as well as my shoes, while we walk to his studio. He opens the doors and the lights are already on. They aren’t as harsh as the other night. It’s like the room is taking a swim in amber. Where the other night in here was chaos, tonight is warm and inviting. “I want you to take a look around and tell me what you see.”
I focus on the wall that I was obsessed with the other night. Many of the art pieces that I noticed are still here. What is different is the lowest six feet in its entirety from left to right. The subject matter is still the same, but the subject is not. The room is now filled with pieces of me.