The Piano Lesson Cabal

It's not her drama. They're nattering on like pissy little school girls, taking strips off their best friend's husbands, talking smack about her legs, his face, her skin, his place. It's appalling. A self perpetuating feeding frenzy of judgement, these forty year old women buzz like a bee hive under siege in the music school's waiting room. Such vitriol and bile, Veronica can't control the scowl creeping across her face. Tuesday night ritual: bitch n bash. Ronnie drops off and picks up her nephew, the world's best boy. A seven year old dynamo of genius and giggles. Normally she spends the hour of Grayson's piano lesson doing homework at the cafe next door but there's a staff christmas party tonight so she's left to her own devices in the too close for comfort foyer. Ronnie wonders why women like this have children to begin with since everything in their lives seems to be an unbearable burden and trial. Rich, white, suburban, solidly middle class moms with mortgages and minivans, kids and cats and dogs and overwhelming anger issues. A deep sense of dissatisfaction pervades the group. Ronnie is overwhelmed with sadness. This is how it ends. Bitterness twisting into acrimony. What a life to look forward to. And on the other side of the door is pure potential. A gaggle of 7 year olds hammering away on Steinways, submerged in sound and exploration. A joyful noise. They used to be allowed to watch the lessons then the teacher banned the adults from participating. Too distracting, overbearing. Intolerant. Ronnie can see this now, it's unavoidable. She hopes her sister isn't one with this coven, full of reproachful accusations and criticisms about her life, her son, her kid sister. She can't imagine growing up in this and not becoming one with it. Oh the children. All of the sudden Ronnie wants to jump up and shout enough, stop it, just stop it, all of you, you heinous, awful, petty women. Then the door swings open spilling children onto laps and grasping for hands, chattering a mile a minute, overflowing with kinetic energy. The women turn on a dime, gathering their charges, smiles tight, keys in hands, shuffling families out the door. Until next week's cabal.

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