LJI Exhibit B: Week 10 - Beneath the Surface
Intersections! My partner was the awesome streetnights. Our pieces can technically be read in any order, I think, though his can be found here if you wish to read his first. :)
It's something out of a dream, almost, when I step inside the low-lit piano bar. People move about, laughing and smiling, some tipping back their beers while others clink their glasses together in makeshift toasts. Even the bartender seems a little different from usual, offering me one of his finest scotches before the request can even pass my lips.
I accept the glass without a word, taking another moment to really take it all in. There’s no music; the din of never-ending conversations taking its place instead. The piano is without a player, and overly-cushioned chairs surrounding it are filled with faces I don’t recognize.
The scene shifts as I move across the room, the Others sitting around the piano hardly sparing me a glance as I take the only empty seat remaining. I lean back, my glass just under my nose as the pianist materializes in front of us, her sleek black dress leaving very little to the imagination.
The scotch burns my throat almost as much as her stare does, cold grey eyes focusing on me for only a moment before she looks away. From where I’m sitting, I can see her fingers stretch over the expanse of white intermingled with black. As I watch them, I feel them and how they scorched my skin as they recalled tunes she no longer knows.
I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve last seen her -- since I’ve last felt those hands drift along my body. All I know is that it’s been too long, and that I still want those hands on me instead. She opens her mouth to speak, but the drone of the bar grows louder, drowning out her voice as her painted lips move in a mockery of speech. She smiles, her eyes fluttering closed as her fingers dance along the keys, the opening chords uplifting and pleasant.
It’s just music, I told her once. Just a piano, nothing more. Press the buttons in the right order and voila, music!
It’s more than that, she spat back, her fingers poised over the keys. Her mouth twisted and her eyebrows bunched together, her eyes screwed shut as she pressed the keys. An angry, violent noise filled the room.
“It’s more than that.” The words repeat, barely a whisper in my ears. Her lips are moving, and it takes me a moment to realize she spoke. Her eyes meet mine once again as her fingers realign themselves on the keys. It’s a title, I realize.
The first note rings out, soft and delicate. There’s something to it -- something I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. Except I’m not hearing it. There’s a heaviness in my chest, and the scotch still burns, but it’s different now, too.
Last time I watched her play, there was an emptiness. Her motions perfect, the notes loud and true, but her expression? For all of her passion for music, it wasn’t there when she played. And her passion for me, and I for her? Just like with all things, it died.
Or so I thought.
The key changes, and so does her expression as she plays. A slight smile toys with her lips, sticking around only for a moment before concentration and pure emotion takes its place. Her fingers never seemed so sure of themselves, and for a few moments, it’s as though we’re the only two in the room.
She pauses, as if the heat of the non-existent spotlight had grown to be too much. We share a look, and there is silence.
“How does it end?” I dare to ask. The other patrons of the bar turn towards me, their faces coming into focus yet again.
She doesn’t answer; at least, not with words. Chords play, twisting my heart and bringing tears to my eyes. She continues, tears rolling down her face as she reaches the end. Her eyes remain closed as she plays one last, hopeful note.
For the first time, I understand: music is more than just the notes written on a page.
And love is more than than just passion.
It's something out of a dream, almost, when I step inside the low-lit piano bar. People move about, laughing and smiling, some tipping back their beers while others clink their glasses together in makeshift toasts. Even the bartender seems a little different from usual, offering me one of his finest scotches before the request can even pass my lips.
I accept the glass without a word, taking another moment to really take it all in. There’s no music; the din of never-ending conversations taking its place instead. The piano is without a player, and overly-cushioned chairs surrounding it are filled with faces I don’t recognize.
The scene shifts as I move across the room, the Others sitting around the piano hardly sparing me a glance as I take the only empty seat remaining. I lean back, my glass just under my nose as the pianist materializes in front of us, her sleek black dress leaving very little to the imagination.
The scotch burns my throat almost as much as her stare does, cold grey eyes focusing on me for only a moment before she looks away. From where I’m sitting, I can see her fingers stretch over the expanse of white intermingled with black. As I watch them, I feel them and how they scorched my skin as they recalled tunes she no longer knows.
I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve last seen her -- since I’ve last felt those hands drift along my body. All I know is that it’s been too long, and that I still want those hands on me instead. She opens her mouth to speak, but the drone of the bar grows louder, drowning out her voice as her painted lips move in a mockery of speech. She smiles, her eyes fluttering closed as her fingers dance along the keys, the opening chords uplifting and pleasant.
It’s just music, I told her once. Just a piano, nothing more. Press the buttons in the right order and voila, music!
It’s more than that, she spat back, her fingers poised over the keys. Her mouth twisted and her eyebrows bunched together, her eyes screwed shut as she pressed the keys. An angry, violent noise filled the room.
“It’s more than that.” The words repeat, barely a whisper in my ears. Her lips are moving, and it takes me a moment to realize she spoke. Her eyes meet mine once again as her fingers realign themselves on the keys. It’s a title, I realize.
The first note rings out, soft and delicate. There’s something to it -- something I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. Except I’m not hearing it. There’s a heaviness in my chest, and the scotch still burns, but it’s different now, too.
Last time I watched her play, there was an emptiness. Her motions perfect, the notes loud and true, but her expression? For all of her passion for music, it wasn’t there when she played. And her passion for me, and I for her? Just like with all things, it died.
Or so I thought.
The key changes, and so does her expression as she plays. A slight smile toys with her lips, sticking around only for a moment before concentration and pure emotion takes its place. Her fingers never seemed so sure of themselves, and for a few moments, it’s as though we’re the only two in the room.
She pauses, as if the heat of the non-existent spotlight had grown to be too much. We share a look, and there is silence.
“How does it end?” I dare to ask. The other patrons of the bar turn towards me, their faces coming into focus yet again.
She doesn’t answer; at least, not with words. Chords play, twisting my heart and bringing tears to my eyes. She continues, tears rolling down her face as she reaches the end. Her eyes remain closed as she plays one last, hopeful note.
For the first time, I understand: music is more than just the notes written on a page.
And love is more than than just passion.