Friday, October 24, 2008
The Page Turner
“Which one?” he asks.
“The nocturne,” Lily says. “I’m still fumbling it. And the concert is on Saturday.”
He tries not to smell her hair as the bench's legs squeak under his added pressure.
“Sounded fine to me, earlier.”
She knocks her shoulder into his and smiles. “You should stick to the trombone, Brian.”
Yet his hands hover over smoke and ivory, not chilled brass. A buzz builds beneath his fingertips. A silent swinging of electrons. A warmth, waiting.
His wrists drop into his lap as Lily smooths the sheet music. Releasing a breath, she relaxes her shoulders. And strikes the first timbre.
He closes his eyes as a piano surrenders its secrets.
She works the instrument like she plays upon my being—
fingers on keys a scalpel dissecting night terrors
foot on soft pedal the teethmarks on a pillow
ripples in a bench the moonlight earthquake of a soul
Brian's eyes open twenty measures in. He’s been counting. And composing.
Leaning in, he waits to turn her page.