[TM] 328 - Revolution
She always had to pee. Always might've been an overstatement, but in her mind it felt like a constant thing. The baby would shift, a foot pressed into her organs the right way and suddenly she had to pee again. Maybe it was her gallbladder or her bladder itself, but she had resigned herself to the front room by this point. The smaller bathroom was much closer to her if she stayed at the front room, than if she opted to hover in the kitchen.
According to the books, the baby was gaining a sense of balance. In Elle's mind, that meant she should realize that she's upside down and pressing her foot into the wrong place, but realizing it was the wrong place was probably out of the baby's area of expertise. If anything, the tiny, well not so tiny, thing inside of her was an expert on how to wake Elle up at the oddest hours of the day.
On her way back from the bathroom, Elle glanced down a row of the bookshelves. Most of them were historical texts, a few tomes of some Italian book she never thought to poke through, and medical journals. One of the shelves, though, had become her recent obsession. Her fingertips traced along the slender spines, feeling the well worn cardboard give slightly beneath the pressure. They all varied, and since moving to London Elle had been able to determine which ones she preferred.
As her fingertips walked down their slipcovers, they paused hooking a pad of her index finger to the edge, pulling it out from the shelf and peering over it. Vladimir Horowitz was a bit of a mouthful, but the way he played piano, Elle didn't mind always forgetting his name. She knew the spine though, the cover as well. A simple man seated in a wooden chair, dressed in a tan suit with a bow tie. He seemed so reserved, almost polite even.
The baby shifted, Elle pressing her hand to her side for a moment, before making her way toward the record player. Slipping the vinyl from its sleeve, she let a careful touch sit only to the edges of it, placing it gently on the player. Setting the needle down against the grooves she took another step back, feeling the baby kick into the wall of her abdomen.
As the Sonata began, Elle's fingers drummed against the swell of her lower half, the pace nowhere near matching what was flooding the room with sound. It was close enough and it settled the small thing trying to do acrobatics in her.
The record turned and the music echoed in her chest, the soft notes hinting toward the emotion that would be laid into later ones. In a way, it echoed herself. The constant ebb and flow of her ability, always a change regardless of how constant. A secondary pulse that thrummed when her emotions were high and calmed when she was resigned enough to let go.
The Appassionata in F Minor was a complex piece, something that on occasion had brought the neighbors to wonder if she had been replaced by a deaf elderly woman, but still calmed her. The pace of the piece was quick. If she shut her eyes as the record revolved around and around, she could almost envision the quickness of the fingers that danced over the keys. The astounding speed and precision they must've had, the countless hours they had to work in order to be so very perfect.
Yet, Vladimir sat in that chair, in the field, pleasant as can be smiling for the camera. He knew something no one else did and as Elle listened to the piece again, she silently wondered if his skill was something that he was born with.
Perhaps he was born with that amazing talent, just as she was born with hers.
According to the books, the baby was gaining a sense of balance. In Elle's mind, that meant she should realize that she's upside down and pressing her foot into the wrong place, but realizing it was the wrong place was probably out of the baby's area of expertise. If anything, the tiny, well not so tiny, thing inside of her was an expert on how to wake Elle up at the oddest hours of the day.
On her way back from the bathroom, Elle glanced down a row of the bookshelves. Most of them were historical texts, a few tomes of some Italian book she never thought to poke through, and medical journals. One of the shelves, though, had become her recent obsession. Her fingertips traced along the slender spines, feeling the well worn cardboard give slightly beneath the pressure. They all varied, and since moving to London Elle had been able to determine which ones she preferred.
As her fingertips walked down their slipcovers, they paused hooking a pad of her index finger to the edge, pulling it out from the shelf and peering over it. Vladimir Horowitz was a bit of a mouthful, but the way he played piano, Elle didn't mind always forgetting his name. She knew the spine though, the cover as well. A simple man seated in a wooden chair, dressed in a tan suit with a bow tie. He seemed so reserved, almost polite even.
The baby shifted, Elle pressing her hand to her side for a moment, before making her way toward the record player. Slipping the vinyl from its sleeve, she let a careful touch sit only to the edges of it, placing it gently on the player. Setting the needle down against the grooves she took another step back, feeling the baby kick into the wall of her abdomen.
As the Sonata began, Elle's fingers drummed against the swell of her lower half, the pace nowhere near matching what was flooding the room with sound. It was close enough and it settled the small thing trying to do acrobatics in her.
The record turned and the music echoed in her chest, the soft notes hinting toward the emotion that would be laid into later ones. In a way, it echoed herself. The constant ebb and flow of her ability, always a change regardless of how constant. A secondary pulse that thrummed when her emotions were high and calmed when she was resigned enough to let go.
The Appassionata in F Minor was a complex piece, something that on occasion had brought the neighbors to wonder if she had been replaced by a deaf elderly woman, but still calmed her. The pace of the piece was quick. If she shut her eyes as the record revolved around and around, she could almost envision the quickness of the fingers that danced over the keys. The astounding speed and precision they must've had, the countless hours they had to work in order to be so very perfect.
Yet, Vladimir sat in that chair, in the field, pleasant as can be smiling for the camera. He knew something no one else did and as Elle listened to the piece again, she silently wondered if his skill was something that he was born with.
Perhaps he was born with that amazing talent, just as she was born with hers.