I like the kid’s guitar tutor. She has mellifluous blonde hair, aqua-blue eyes, fleshy lips, taut skin and milky teeth. She is a dinky doll with snap-able limbs.
I like her most in winter, because the bitter cold blushes her skin, and her blue eyes look bluer.
She arrives this evening, in a black beret sprinkled with snow. And those eyes, inviting vortexes.
“It’s cold out there. Snowing a little”, she smiles.
I call the thirteen-year-old and escape.
When the lesson is under way, I peak in. She has neglected nails, the dungeon of her aspect. Probably because she doesn’t use a plectrum, just plucks away, rawly. She spots me staring.
“Would you like a drink… tea?” I blurt
“Tea would be lovely, thank you”, she smiles.
I forgot to ask her how she takes it, I think, as I watch the kettle. Be safe: one sugar, splash of milk.
I taste it. Perfect. Perhaps she’ll sip from the same section of the cup, then we’d have kissed.
I place the cup beside her and she makes me a smile in return.
I sit on the stairs and listen to the rest of the lesson. She says very little to the thirteen-year-old; she prefers to demonstrate. When she does speak, she whispers.
“Would you like to borrow an umbrella?” I ask her, as she wonders back into the snow.
“Do people use umbrellas in the snow?”
“I don’t know. I think they were invented for the sun, originally.”
“No, thank you”, she smiles, and disappears.
Later, as I lie on the chaise lounge with the iPad, I espy her cup of tea. There is a layer of lip-gloss on the rim, signalling her sample, and an indented sheet of music beneath the cold tea-laden vessel, illustrating her disappointment.
The Male Nanny