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I’d Rather Be Eaten By Piranhas Than Be Around Somebody Getting A Divorce
I should know.
When I was a kid, I took piano lessons from a woman in the village. She had a fancy house which was probably just a normal house, but compared to where I lived (which usually had a cardboard box full of newborn kittens in the kitchen), it was the Ritz.
I took lessons from her for years, which means I had a ringside seat to her divorce.
As everything fell apart, my “lessons” turned into more of a self-study situation. I would practice endless scales and exercises while she and her husband whisper-fought in the kitchen.
One time I accidentally knocked over the piano lamp, probably because I was leaning over the keyboard trying to hear what was going on.
The husband, who was a florid-faced insurance bigwig, stuck his head around the kitchen doorway.
“Everything okay out here?”
“Uh… Yeah.”
They had a daughter who was a lot older than me. The only impression I had of her was that she was angry.
The piano lessons devolved into therapy sessions in which a grown woman complained to a fifth-grader about her life. I…
