We’ve all been there before. Poised at the edge of a padded table with tissue paper rustling under our butt. The scent of rubbing alcohol deep in our nose. The sterile taste of wood fresh on our tongue. Trying to forget about the cotton strings tied in haphazard loops at the nape of our neck and the vulnerability we feel as the air traces our exposed back. Willing ourselves to relax beneath the grip on our shoulder as a doctor presses a cold stethoscope to our breast and listens.

That noise inside the stethoscope is just a smokescreen, really. The true sound of a heartbeat comes from the music it holds inside.

Alfred Cahn, my childhood piano teacher, understood this better than anyone else.

Like weather station clocks, my mother and I arrived at Mr. Cahn’s Whitefish Bay home every Thursday at 5pm. His wife, Ilse, greeted us warmly at the door. Melody, their golden Labrador, wagged her tail in greeting, sniffed at our fingers excitedly, and waited for head pats and chin scratches.

We descended the narrow staircase that led to the refinished basement studio where Mr. Cahn gave lessons. My mother settled into an easy chair in the corner and busied herself with the papers in her briefcase. I retrieved a sonatina album from my book bag and placed it at the mahogany upright piano before having a seat on the matching bench. Mr. Cahn adjusted the metronome that rested on the ledge.

The metronome was a smallish, thinly-laminated box with a brass pendulum that moved to and fro in a series of metered clicks. It was obnoxious, like a gang of Hummel figurines that tries valiantly (but fails miserably) to upstage the starpower of a whisky decanter displayed in the same curio case.

With twinkling eyes, Mr. Cahn informed me that his boyhood music teacher had rapped his knuckles with a ruler for rogue timing. How fortunate I was, he continued, leaning in close, that he had come across this metronome in the store window. The very last one in stock, too. He winked at my mother across the room, and they burst into a simultaneous fit of giggles. I exhaled carefully through my mouth, positioned my hands at the keyboard and stared at my nail polish.

My mother observed that I swayed my body a lot while practicing and brought it to Mr. Cahn’s attention. He told her that there was nothing to worry about; our bodies were the true metronomes. “All the rhythm is here,” he said, poking at his chest. “Swaying is fine,” he added, staring at my hands, “but those fingernails need to be clipped.”

I took on a variety of compositions during quarterly recitals at University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I played Scarlatti, Hayden, Clementi, and a few selections from Mr. Cahn’s personal repertoire of published music. I gradually came to the realization that my teacher was a world-renowned composer and national treasure. I was proud to be his student. A bit haughty, perhaps.

Years passed, and I tackled pieces from Schubert and Beethoven. The chord progressions grew increasingly complex. The girth and dexterity required to spell out multiple keyed chords caused me to overenunciate my notes, and the phrasing suffered as a result. I also lacked discipline when it came to proper fingering.

Mr. Cahn gently reproved when I missed a chord and reattempted from the same spot. It was useless, he explained, to address a setback at the point of onset. You had to go back to the beginning of the measure to unlearn your mistake or you would never truly master the transition.

So I would back up and start again. Sometimes I got it right. Other times, I found myself overwhelmed and in need of a break. When this happened, I would stop playing for a while and we would talk about our lives.

He hated Reaganomics; it was heartless and greedy. This elicited an audible grunt-nod of solidarity from the easy chair in the corner, followed by a delicate cough, the quick scratching of a nylon-clad ankle, and the slightest rustling of briefcase papers.

My dog, Sassi, was heartless and greedy, too. Earlier in the week, she stole a half-eaten onion bialy out of trash that she didn’t really want. She didn’t want anyone else to have it either, so she guarded it for a full 36 hours before reluctantly devouring it in a furious, snarling, tooth-baring huff when I tried to take it away.

His dog, Melody, was only allowed one cup of kibble at mealtimes because she was overweight by the veterinarian’s account. She was a loving dog, but the real reason she sniffed at our fingers was because she was hungry. Hangry, even.

I looked forward to getting home after our lesson because it was Thursday night and I was allowed to watch Bosom Buddies on TV after I finished my homework.

He looked forward to having a nice dinner with Ilse after our lesson. They immigrated to the United States together after the war. On their wedding night, they shared a candy bar from a vending machine for dinner.

I was on the track team at school and especially loved sprinting and high jumps. Earlier in the week, I was at the last leg of a practice course, just inches away from the finish line. My arms were raised in victory as I tripped over a hurdle and fell in front of my teammates. Everyone laughed.

When he was a young man, he would run with heavy bags of grain on his shoulders. Even in the rain. Fast and steady, just like they demanded. It was something they often did in the camps. Dachau for a short time. Others in Belgium and France.

He would talk a little about his experiences, but not very much. I didn’t pry; I was beginning to understand that the big picture in life was sometimes clearer whenever I stopped fixating on glaring objects and gave my attention to the surrounding spaces instead.

There were fifteen minutes left in the lesson. I wasn’t ready to play, but I still had a lot to learn. So I sat back and listened as my teacher took over the bench.

Head bowed deeply in a gesture of command and respect, his fingers descended to unlock the keys. Freed from their ivory cages, the notes floated to the surface one by one and hovered at the back of his neck like a halo of fireflies. Flickering like the neon signage in Lanford Wilson’s Hot L Baltimore. Leaking aldehydes, pheromones and ozone into the humid basement air until the small room teemed with perfume.

My mother set her papers aside and listened intently.

Angry crimson top notes opened the phrase. Unanswered questions hung in fermata, burning. Deep hunger ensued, its acrid, salt crystal tears buried within middle notes of humiliation and flatness. Crimson questions turned blackly purple, pointing fingers stiffened towards an iridescent veil of blue. Air still charged with ozone but aldehydes mellowing, giving way to base notes of acceptance. Peace.

Unanswered questions adrift in the wind like an eddy of crackled leaves, echoing one last time before falling softly to the ground amidst a gentle fade.

The sillage still haunts me to this day.

I was seventeen when Mr. Cahn gave me my last lesson. I know that sounds like a schlocky lead-in, but it’s not my intention. Mind you, I could have said it was the summer of my seventeenth year, but I didn’t, even though it was. Mrs. Cahn had passed away from cancer a few months before, and I was moving to Philadelphia to attend Temple University in the fall.

I can’t recall what composer I played or if I was at all prepared for the lesson. I do remember Mr. Cahn telling my mother how proud he was to include me among his best and most gifted students, and that he sincerely believed I would return to the piano someday. He wasn’t one to offer compliments superfluously, so I held onto his words tightly. He hugged us as we said our goodbyes. Then he grasped my fingers in his own, observed the nails (no longer polished but still meticulously clipped) and kissed the knuckles that had, incidentally, remained unmarred by a ruler throughout our time together.

If I still had that metronome today, I’d bust it out every time someone gets that faux pensive look in their eyes before asking me why I’ve never been married.

Because chord progressions are still a bitch.

Every time a woman tells me I can’t possibly understand the full capacity of love because I don’t have kids of my own I’d unclench my fists, adjust the brass pendulum, smile, and think of Hummel figurines.

Because chord progressions are still a bitch. And clearly they’re not the only ones.

Simple pleasures have always brought me great joy, like the sound of my coffee grinder in the morning, fact checking obscure movie trivia on imdb with friends, and double conditioning my hair in the shower. Assault and battery charges would not be a worthy exchange for the luxury of these indulgences.

So I continue to stay on the right side of the law. Warming my palms with steaming mugs of freshly-ground joy. Bantering with friends about the celluloid stars of yesteryear. Listening to the true sound of my heartbeat:

”Single black female seeks lasting musical connection:

Key of D is a Major plus. (I Forgot to be Your Lover, William Bell. I Want You, Marvin Gaye. I’ll Stay, Eddie Hazel.)

I live in the neighborhood of F Minor (I’m looking at you, Massive Attack. You give me The Spoils and I Want You, too. Somehow I don’t think Marvin would mind.)

But A Minor commute won’t scare me away (Thanks for The Memory, Roy Ayers.)

Must be willing to dig deep in the crates and dust off sleeves

The rarer the cuts, the better

Unrequited love ballads a plus

Blues if the venue is dark and smoky

70-155 beats per minute

Common time together is preferred

But 2/4 is acceptable

A lavish bridge with strings is nice

But a simple bass line will do

If it leads to peace

Keeps me from getting entangled in trills

And helps me stay focused on the whole notes”

Detangling my conditioned, greying tresses with a wide-toothed comb.

Playing it by ear.