Experimenting with scene

A scene regarding my inability to read music:

Sitting in a small, cramped practice room I glance at myself in the mirror. I can hear the person in the neighboring room practicing in an attempt to master a classical piano piece I struggle to identify. A Boston piano stands on the wall opposite the mirror, with its marred black matte finish and the bottom of the B on the Boston logo chipped off, the surface is worn after only one year in service. My instructor Mr. F. is sitting on the piano bench across from me. His flash cards slowly emerge from his brown leather briefcase, each containing one musical note sitting in a different place on the staff previously created with a felt tip sharpie pen in black ink. I begin to identify the notes. Struggling I say, “BDECA” in succession. I start over again but falter. My face is turning red. The room is beginning to feel even smaller and the temperature seems to be climbing. I can’t remember. “I think its C,” I say timidly.

A scene expounding upon instrument description:

I crack open the case. Gingerly, I place the violin on my blush pink bedspread. The instant I open the case, a cigar-box-like smell wafts through the air, kind of musty and spicy at the same time. Undeterred by any imperfections on the violin or any other contents of the case, I stroke the black synthetic material of the interior with my fingers. It feels like a fleece blanket when it’s new. I inspect the violin; the wood grain, the F holes, the scroll, the stain, the shape of the body in all its refined elegance. I do not notice the dings from prior users. I continue emptying the case, examining the rosin, a block of hardened tree sap enclosed on three sides with wood. I place the rosin back in its individual compartment and return to the bow. I tighten the bow, twisting the metal knob at its base. Before I know it, I’ve gone too far. One of the horsehairs pops off, springing forward as if by its own will, for freedom.

A scene describing my only concert:

            A crowd of parents are gathered in the gymnasium, sitting on rickety metal folding chairs. I hear the crowd from behind the curtain as I sit under the lights and begin to sweat. My hands are clammy, gripping the cool metal of the slide; I start to shake with the slightest of tremors. The hum of the crowd is growing louder, occasionally broken by an exuberant laugh or crying child. The music teacher has everyone assembled on the risers. I am sitting on a chair, firmly connected to the stage. The teacher smiles at us in reassurance, then exits stage left to introduce us. The blue velvet curtains are drawn back with sudden force. On cue, we start to play.