You loved different manicures. Such interesting and beautiful designs, so many variations and styles. You'd love to do fancy manicures if you weren't a pianist.

You interned at Joey Drew's studio. You should have performed simple songs, recording them on a tape recorder. The knowledge that a piece of your melody will be heard throughout the country always sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

But you couldn’t restrain yourself for one day. Your friends were getting their nails done at a sleepover and offered you beautiful false nails. You happily agreed, and the very next day you hid your hands between your knees.

“Well?” the blond arched an eyebrow, looking at how you nervously fidget in your chair. “Why are not you playing?”

Sammy Lawrence was the director of the music department, he was supposed to keep an eye on you. The man was quite... a complex person, let's say.

“I still can’t get the mood…” you muttered, regretting your agreement to get false nails.

“Time is not endless, kid. If you don't play now, I'll kick you out of the studio.” the musician said with restrained irritation, impatiently tapping the piano with his long, elegant fingers, leaning on the instrument.

As soon as you raised your hands, his face changed from calm to surprised and stern.

“What is this, a manicure?”