I open up one of my old apps and start editing my profile.

FOUR

Anna

THE NEXT MORNING, I AWAKEN ON MY COUCH IN THE SAME exact position as when I collapsed last night, too tired to go the extra distance to my bedroom. I slept like a corpse, and I basically feel like one today. My head aches, and my muscles are sore. It’s like I have a hangover even though I missed the fun of actually getting drunk. Yesterday was too much. The looping hell of violin practice. Therapy. Dinner with Julian. The blow job. Our discussion.

Ugh, I’m in an open relationship now. I need to decide if I want to start dating. Groaning, I cover my face with a throw pillow. I should get up and start my day, but I have zero desire to do anything.

My purse vibrates against my thigh, and I plop a limp hand inside and half-heartedly fish for my phone. If my mom is yelling at me about something, I’m going to ignore her until lunchtime. I just can’t deal with her right now.

It turns out it’s not text messages from my mom. It’s a picture of Rose’s fluffy white Persian cat in a pink tutu. She’s only sent the picture to me because Suz is a late riser.

What do you think? she asks.

I laugh silently to myself as I reply, You take your life into your own hands every time you do that to her.

I know. I’m lucky I still have all my fingers. But she looks so pretty dressed up! she says.

She looks like she’s plotting your murder, I tell her.

But she’ll do it IN STYLE, she says, pausing briefly before she messages me again. How are you today?

I don’t have energy to go into it, so I keep things simple. I’m okay. Still processing. Thanks for asking.

I really do think you should try dating. I meant what I said about it helping to empower me, she says.

I’m considering it, I reply, and because I don’t want everything to be about me, I ask, Are you exhausted today? You were texting past midnight your time.

Yes, so tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m supposed to hear back from the producers for that special project on TV this week.

I think you’re going to hear good news. You’re exactly who they need, I say.

I hope so! I really, really, really love this piece.

Envy sparks in my chest at her remark, and I dislike myself for it. I wish I still loved music like she does, that it brought me joy instead of this suffocating pressure. I will be happy for her if this opportunity pans out, though. I’m not a complete monster.

How are you doing on the Richter piece? Any progress? she asks.

I hate talking about my progress on the Richter piece—because there never is any—so I keep my reply short. Nope. But I’ll keep trying anyway. I should get to it.

Good luck! she says. One of these days, everything is going to flow right out of you. You’re just creatively constipated right now.

I don’t believe her, but I keep my reply light so that she doesn’t turn this into a long motivational chat. I hope so. Have a good one!

I don’t want to, but my bladder forces me to get up and plod to the bathroom. Bad instant coffee and half a bagel later, I drag myself to the secretary desk in the corner of my living room where my black instrument case resides. Rock sits next to the case, his painted smile aimed up at me, and I pet him once in greeting.

“You’re such a good boy,” I say. “The cutest rock I’ve ever seen.”

His smile doesn’t move, of course it doesn’t, but I can tell he’s pleased with the attention. If he had a tail, he wouldn’t be able to control his wag. I recognize that it’s possibly a bad sign that I’ve taken to anthropomorphizing a stone, but there’s something about his crooked eyes and mouth that gives him an extra splash of character. After a moment, I can tell he wants me to get to business, and I sigh and focus on the instrument case.

My life is in this box. The best parts. And the worst, too. The highest highs and the lowest lows. Transcendent joy, yearning, ambition, devotion, desperation, anguish. All right here.

This is the ritual: I run my fingertips over the top of the case, undo the latches, and open it up. I retrieve my bow and tighten the horsehairs, apply rosin. I shut my eyes as I breathe the pine scent into my lungs. This is the scent of music to me, pine and dust and wood. I pull my violin out and tune the strings, starting with the A. The discordant sounds relax me. Adjusting the tension of the strings relaxes me. Getting the notes to ring true relaxes me, the familiarity, the everydayness, the illusion of control.

I begin with scales. Critics can say whatever they want about me artistically, but when it comes to my technical abilities, I have always been a strong violinist. It is because of these scales, the fact that I practice them for an hour every day, rain or shine, in sickness and in health. I set my timer and run through my favorite keys, the sharps, flats, majors, minors, the arpeggios, the harmonics. The notes sing from my violin effortlessly, fluidly, as slow or as fast as I want them to.

At the end of the day, however, scales are just patterns. They aren’t art. They don’t have a soul. A robot can play scales. But music …

When the alarm on my phone rings, I turn it off and step over to the music stand that I keep by the French doors leading to my small balcony, which overlooks the street below. The sheet music is sitting there, ready for me, but I don’t really need to see it. I memorized the notes long ago. I see them in my sleep most of the time.

The top of page one reads “Untitled for Anna Sun, by Max Richter,” and that title alone nearly makes me hyperventilate. There are probably violinists who would commit murder if it would inspire Max to write them something, and yet here I am, letting these pages gather dust in my living room.

I glance at Rock, and his smile looks a little stretched now, a little impatient. He wants me to get on with it.

“Okay, okay,” I say. Taking a breath, I straighten my back, settle my violin under my chin, and bring my bow to the strings.

This is the last time I’m starting over.

Only nothing sounds right, and when I get to the sixteenth measure, I know that was all garbage. I’m not playing this with the right amount of feeling. I can hear it, and if I can, others will, too. I stop and start back at the beginning.

This is the last time I’m starting over.

But now I sound like I’m trying too hard. That’s a horrible criticism to get. Back to the beginning.

This is really the last time I’m starting over.

But it isn’t. I’m a liar. I start over so many times that when my alarm rings, telling me it’s time for lunch, I’ve lost count of how many restarts I’ve had. All I know is I’m exhausted and hungry and on the edge of tears.

I put my violin away, but instead of heading to my kitchen to reheat the leftovers of yesterday’s leftovers, I slump down to the floor and bury my face in my hands.

I can’t keep going like this.

Something is wrong with my mind. I can see it when I take a step back and analyze my actions, but in the moment, when I’m practicing, I can never tell. My desperation to please others deafens me so I can’t hear the music the way I used to. I only hear what’s wrong. And the compulsion to start over is irresistible.

For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again. Am I even an artist, then? What is my purpose, then?