The Audition

There’s something about the first day of a new semester, so full of promise. Newness pulses in the air and becomes tangible in the sharpness of pencil points, the crispness of ruled paper, the prospect of doing all those things you said you would last semester, getting closer to that one thing you didn’t work hard enough for. But is it real promise? The kind of promise that could be cradled and rocked under the bosom of hope?
Choosing to wear black on this day was symbolic; I was mourning newness, cloaked and covered, shielding myself from the promise this Lysol-coated hallway was pretending to offer. The white gleam of the floor was beginning to blend into the walls around me and I felt like a fat, black blob immersed in a sterile swath of white.
The door opened and a fresh-faced student walked past me wearing an obnoxiously loud pink sweater. I was next. I took off my black jacket, saying nothing, looking at no one. I straightened my body, swivelled my shoe twice so I could hear the satisfying clean squeak it made; I was here, I was real. Breathe in and out. And go. The notes evaporated out of me as if I were the steam rising out of the professor’s mug of coffee.
When I had finished the last note, my mouth snapped shut and I looked up at the professor. The air buzzed with energy as if it were holding onto the vibratos and crescendos of my voice. Real promise, real hope circled the air between us.