part 322.3 of a novel: the trumpet

I remember playing the trumpet when I was eleven. I played it for a month. A man named Milt tried to teach me to play. He had a mustache. I was not good at the trumpet. I quit. He seemed a little upset when I quit, but not really. He knew I didn’t practice. The other trumpets practiced more than me. I was holding everyone back. He patted me on the back and said it was nice knowing me and I said something like, “I just don’t think I have the lips to be a great trumpeter,” but I think we both knew I was making excuses.