Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

Steichen. That's for sure" he quipped and went back to tapping aimlessly on the piano keys. I sat on a wooden folding chair and took out my math homework. Nearly fifteen minutes later, Michael walked through the door casually and didn't even apologize for his lateness. He said he hated keeping to schedules; it was the one drawback to teaching.
    "Creative people have to be motivated, have to be in the mood," he explained as he unwrapped his light blue scarf from around his neck and unbuttoned his soft wool coat. "School administrators don't understand that." He draped his things over a chair and beckoned me to the piano.
    "We'll begin with the scales," he said, "and your breathing. Breathing," he emphasized, "is the key. Forget melody, forget the notes, forget your voice. Think only about your diaphragm," he preached.
    Almost as soon as I began, he stopped me and turned to Richard Taylor, who was already smirking.
    "See what I mean, Richard? None of the students here have been taught properly. No sense in wasting any more of your time today. We won't be needing the piano."
    Richard folded the music books and left without saying a word, not even a quick goodbye to me. As soon as he was out the door, Michael turned back to me and smiled.
    "He's a talented young man," he said, nodding toward the doorway, "but a bit too serious." He leaned closer to me to whisper. "He makes me nervous." He went to the doorway to close the door.
    "But," he said, returning, "I meant what I said about your breathing. It's causing you to put too much strain on your throat. I bet your throat aches after you've been singing for a while, huh?"
    I nodded.
    "Of course. Let's try it again. We'll do it the way a European teacher of mine taught me."
    He took me by total surprise when he stepped up behind me and encircled me with his arms. He held my elbows in his hands and drew me back against him.
    "Relax," he whispered in my ear. I felt his breath on my neck, his chest pressed to my shoulders. The sweet aroma of his after shave lotion floated around my face and filled my nostrils. Then he pressed the palm of his right hand just under my breasts to my diaphragm.
    "Now take a deep breath," he said, "and push my palm away by breathing out."
    I felt his right forefinger graze the underside of my left breast, and for a moment I could do nothing. He had taken my breath away, not prepared me to do breathing exercises. Surely, I thought, he felt my body trembling and he felt the drumming of my heart. His breathing quickened, too.
    "Go on," he coaxed. "Take a deep breath."
    I did it and when my shoulders lifted, his hand slid closer to my bosom so that he was practically supporting it with the surface of his thumb and wrist.
    "Good. Breathe out, press my hand away. Think about it as you do it. Concentrate, concentrate," he said and I did so. He made me repeat it. I did it nearly a dozen more times and suddenly, I grew dizzy, so dizzy my legs felt wobbly. I moaned and lost my balance, falling against him even more. He tightened his grip on me and held me fast.
    "Are you all right?" he asked quickly. I tried to speak, but I could only nod. Then I heard him laugh. "You hyperventilated. It's nothing. You over-oxygenated your blood. Just sit down for a moment," he said, guiding me back to the wooden folding chair. Then he squatted beside me and took my hands into his. "Okay?" He squeezed my hands gently and rested his forearms on my knees.
    I nodded, trying to find a voice that didn't quiver, but my face felt so flushed and my heart was still pounding that I was afraid to utter a sound, positive my voice would crack. When I looked at him so close to me, I saw a depth in his dark eyes that made me spin in a different way. It made me feel light, airy, eager to fall into his arms and have him hold me. My body began to grow warm in the most intimate places. I had to turn away because I was sure he could see these things happening in me and I was blushing just as much from embarrassment as I was from the heat that fanned out from my heart and rushed through my breasts.
    "Just rest a moment," he said, "and we'll go back to the scales."
    He patted my knee and stood up. He went to the piano and looked at some papers for a few moments. "Okay," I finally said.
    I know I didn't sing as well as I could when we went through the scales afterward. He made me do it repeatedly until he said I had combined the proper breathing with the notes.
    "Fine. That's good," he declared,