Giancarlo tucked the watch back into its pouch and, leaving it there, got up from the table. He went to the living room and parted the curtain. It was just after six o’clock and still Carter had not arrived. This irked Giancarlo somewhat, not so much because he himself was punctual to a fault, but more so because he was simply eager to get started. Contrary to his prior expectations, he was actually quite enjoying these lessons. Not knowing how else to channel his growing agitation from waiting, he went to the piano and began to play his scales.

It wasn’t long after that the doorbell finally rang. When Giancarlo opened the door, he found an apologetic Carter standing out on the front step, a white paper bag in his hand.

“Mi dispiace il ritardo, Professore,” said Carter, expressing regret for his late arrival. He stepped inside and held up the bag before adding in explanation, “Ma ho molto fame. I’m really hungry, so I had to stop and get something.”

At hearing this, Giancarlo became very much annoyed with himself. He ought to have understood from the start that the young man would be hurrying to each lesson after work, tired and hungry, barely a moment for something to eat. Too many years of solitary living had eroded his social graces, and so it had never occurred to him to have on offer at least a little something to sustain his student throughout the session.

“Entra, entra,” replied Giancarlo, waving him in. “Go sit, and I will bring you something to drink with it.”

When he returned from the kitchen with a carafe of water and a glass, Giancarlo found Carter standing at the piano, leaning over the bench to look at the sheet music on the music stand.

“ ‘Sonata in A by Giancarlo Rosa,’ ” he read aloud, sounding most impressed. “I heard the piano when I came to the door. Is this what you were playing?”

“No,” replied Giancarlo uneasily, setting the carafe and glass on the coffee table. He went to the piano and reached for the music. “What you heard were just exercises,” he said, folding the pages shut. He tossed them in the pile with the others, and gestured for Carter to take his seat.

“I didn’t know you wrote music,” said Carter, once installed at the coffee table. “I suppose of course that it makes sense that you would, I mean given that you are a music professor.”

“Some of us do, some of us don’t,” said Giancarlo distantly, sitting down across from his student. “I don’t any longer.”

“Why not?” asked Carter innocently. “If what you write sounds anything like those exercises, it must be awesome.”

“You’re forgetting your meal,” said Giancarlo, reaching for the carafe. He filled the glass and placed it near Carter. “What did you bring to eat?”