I sit here, sprawled out across my recently-acquired double bed which, I may add, is still a major novelty, and whose boundless creases of a cream-white bedspread still enthralls my minimalistic aesthetics. I oscillate with slight discomfort; crossed-legged to legs outstretched, and my toes caress the rusting keys of my cheap old lacquer saxophone, which lies in a languid poise much similar to my own, following the contours with the grace of adoration.
The fact that I am currently musing myself on an instrument that not four hours ago was causing me so much grief. The keys that my sweating fingertips once slid off in a desperate attempt to play the right notes now lie at my feet like a pet dog, subjected to my child-like, yet somehow condescending, strokes.
It turns out that I had reason to be stressed earlier. The recording was a disaster, and not even my prolific statements of apology aimed at my duet partner could amend my cringing performance. But I tried my best to keep a smile on my face and my "sorry"'s sincere.
And now I'm home alone, enjoying the fact that I can say my own name, or rather, hear my own name without the need to get up and fulfil the chorish demands that follow. (Not only am I a narcissist but a lazy narcissist!) All that comes to mind when that fiasco of a recording is recalled is the utterance of a mirthless laugh and retrospective sighs of exasperation.
