Cue: Cello Concerto in E Minor by Elgar - this was originally a freewrite, but I played about with it a little.A withered old man storms into his dark, cold bedsit, attempting to slam the door behind him with his weak frail arms. He hobbles over to the rickety chest of drawers, picks up a photo frame and stares. Slowly he lowers himself into the plain wooden chair next to him, never taking his eyes off of the photo in his hands. And he remembers.
The first time they met was in Georgia. A warm, balmy night at a mansion on the river. Owned by an obnoxious lawyer. He had arrived late and entered, nervously clutching his violin case and hurrying towards the rest of the orchestra. He was worrying over his solo. The final few bars had felt wrong in the last few rehearsals. Something was missing but he couldn’t place it.
He’d been in his seat all of a minute when he saw her. She was only 19 and the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. She was twirling around the ballroom with her skirts flowing as if in slow-motion. A sweet innocence graced her face and when she smiled, all of the lights in the room seemed to focus entirely on her. As the solo approached his eyes never left her.
While she was before him everything seemed perfect. He held his violin with such tenderness as he wished he could hold her. As he reached the final, troubling section, he felt no worries or fear.
While she was before him no note could land wrong, no phrase move too quickly. As the melody peaked, he fell.
He wanted nothing more at that moment than to take her in his arms and profess the love that had just overtaken him so violently. But he was a mere musician with nothing to offer this angel before him. He was no match for the tall, dark foreboding man with whom she was dancing. Covered in fine clothes and brimming with confidence, her partner was possibly the most intimidating man in the room. As he moved gracefully around the floor, the musician watched him. Hated him for everything he was and everything the musician was not.
The old man still felt the anger coursing through his veins, so strongly that it shook him from his trance. He rested one thin, wrinkled finger upon the picture, gave a sad smile and then dragged his failing body out of the seat and over to the kitchenette. After pouring himself a whisky he moved to the bed and sat on the hard mattress. As he supped his drink, he drifted back to that night. To the first time he heard her voice.
It was as soft and gentle as her manner. She had approached him during his break.
“You play beautifully.” She began. “I wish to thank you. For your music made my soul dance.”
He was not confident and had instantly frozen when that peaceful lilting tone first fell upon his ears. He managed to stutter a brief thank you and then stood dumbly, staring at the vision before him as if it were a dream.
“I adore music, I wish that I could hear it played all day long. That it could accompany me throughout my life. It is music that truly makes us feel, do you not think?”
She was still talking to him! The poor, nervous musician went to run his fingers through his thick brown hair, a nervous habit he’d had since childhood, when he remembered that his sister had spent what felt like hours trying to tidy it before his performance. Instead he scratched his neck and returned his shaking hand to his side, gripping his trousers as he tried to reply.
“I..I..I.. a.. agree. M..m..m..music.” He paused, trying desperately to order his thoughts before he spoke. “Music is life.” From the instant that the words left his mouth, he mentally cursed himself for speaking so openly to this goddess. Surely she could not truly care what he thought.
Instead of laughing at him and running back to her rich, cultured friends, as he expected, the woman stayed and her smile grew. “Yes.” She whispered. “It is everything.”
She glanced around the room, before grabbing his free hand and pulling him to the garden.
“Play for me!” She commanded, laughter on her face and joy in her voice at the excitement of hiding from her dull, judgemental, over-privileged friends.
The musician glanced around, making sure that they were far enough away, and that the ball was loud enough, that they would not be discovered. Not once did he consider refusing, for what warm-blooded man could deny this woman anything?
He had played for 20 minutes straight as she twirled and swayed through the trees, down the path, around the benches. By the time she stopped he was sweating from the effort. And then she ran to him, grabbed his violin and gently, carefully placed the instrument on the bench, before dragging the musician to the bench to join her.
He was becoming increasingly aware of how inappropriate this was. If any of the other guests were to see them, her reputation and his job would both be in danger. But as he opened his lips to speak his concerns, she shushed him with one delicate finger rested lightly on his mouth. Pushing her deep mahogany curls behind her, she leaned forward and replaced the finger with her lips.
As the old man remembered that kiss he abandoned his glass to the bedside table, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, swept up in the perfect memory of the perfect woman. The perfect woman who was no longer his and would never be his, nor anyone’s, ever again.
In his memory the kiss deepened, his breathing faltered.
But unlike the first time, when he’d pulled away to tell her he loved her, now, in the memory, the musician would not let go. Not even for breath.
And as the old musician’s body shut down, and the music faded, the kiss continued, with him for eternity.
