Playing piano in his running shoes…


He left the party late that night. He doesn’t like it when they come back home with him. He doesn’t know what to do with them, or himself after the sex is over… they sit in her bed. He pretends to be sleeping…
Tonight, he left alone. He didn’t even flirt with anyone there. It was one of those nights when one feels invisible. uninvited…
Home. alone. at dawn… he plays.
Chopin. Prelude numero 2.
Pam. rest. pa pam pam. rest. paam.
And he stopped. He closed the piano, and stared at his reflection on the shiny wood, his face slightly distorted by the words ‘Steinway & Sons’… he carefully dropped back the crochet throw over the keyboard cover, and silently muttered something about these ridiculous things that’d upset her if not done the way she wants. He didn’t mind though. not then. not since she left. he even centered the dried flowers on the body and smiled, knowing how this would please her… but thinking how much he hates to put something on the lid, and how much he likes to open his concert grand while playing…
He’s put on his jogging gear. but came back to the piano. he continued the Prelude. he played it again. then again.
Pam. rest. pa pam pam. rest. paam.
And again he stopped. He closed the piano and saw her reflection on the shiny wood, her face distorted by the words ‘Steinway & Sons’… she’s here. she’s back. But only to take her dried flowers, her crochet throw. to pack them with her things and leave… He felt a twinge of guilt for he was happy for a second… yes, a trace of happiness. because now he could play his piano open. But he immediately understood his pain, his loss… he would have no one to listen to him playing.
Silence. a pause. his running shoes squeaked on the pedal. she left.
he continued the prelude.
Pam. rest.
he thought about how much goes on during a note of silence between two lovers.
pa pam pam. rest.
he thought about how much was said during two notes in a prelude.
paam.