Maybe in the spring.
It's become my mantra, my answer to everything, my get-out-of-jail-free card. They are slow to catch on. I discovered the effectiveness of those four little words when Ben stopped in last night, only staying long enough to gift us with dinner for three (he didn't stay) and a rosin cake for my bow, asking if I would consider bringing my violin on our trip. I didn't have to say I was still considering whether or not we would be going on the trip in the first place, that would be assumed at this point and hence his reason for talking about it. If he can get me to confirm that we will go then he will feel better.
Instead I said maybe I would play again in the spring, giving him nothing to grasp onto as a confirmation or a denial.
Works for me. Worked for him too. He dropped the subject, told me I looked beautiful in the snow-light and kissed my cheek before turning to head back down the front steps.
Ben. You stupid jerk. Come here.
What?
I could really use a hug from someone over three feet tall.
So could I, but if you're all there is, then it's good enough.
He came back up and stuck me face first into his jacket. He pressed his lips into my hair and breathed warm air on my cold little head, tightening his arms around me and we just stayed that way until he heard Henry calling for me and he called back that I was on my way inside now.
Then he let me go and smiled and went home.
I played for two hours last night. Music for the kids to fall asleep by.
