It's a slash fic!
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His fingers run across the piano, sending waves of sound coursing throughout the small room. The waves rush to the walls, and bounce back in an echoing collision. Before they have time to fade away, a million more notes come fluttering from under his fingertips.
Splendid men in top hats, with coattails streaming to the floor, all gather around, standing back far enough to give him space, but close enough so they can see his brilliance. He is unmoved by their presence, and so engulfed in his work that he hardly gives notice to their existence.
He moves about the keys with such grace that it is nearly impossible to believe that he is as human as the other men. In fact, it is speculated quite often- by the splendid men, no doubt- that he is not. His mother would tell you otherwise.
The young women tell each other that he is some sort of angel, and they believe it. After all, he sits at that piano not dressed in black, like the other pianists they know, but dressed in white. All white. The plainness of his clothing accentuates the brightness of his blue eyes, though mostly only the young women bother to notice this.
Once, a local gardener came to see him play. The man sort of stuck out against the sea of rich and fancy men, but he did not mind so much. He only cared about hearing the angel play, which he did, and could honestly say he thoroughly enjoyed.
"Wait." The gardener turned, having been stopped from exiting the room by the presence of a hand gripping his arm. It came as a bit of a shock, and if the splendid men had still been around, they would have stood and gaped. The angel never spoke.
The gardener was too surprised to reply, but the angel was not expecting him to. He released his hold on the gardener, and slowly inched backwards. "Thank you for coming."
The angel gave a curt nod, then disappeared behind the piano. The enticing melody that arrived shortly after, combined with the deep surprise of having heard the angel vocalize, attempted to persuade the gardener to remain in his spot, but he had pressing tasks that needed to be tended to.
The young women all wonder why the angel keeps to himself as much as he does. A man as talented and pretty as he would be able to have any woman he wants. But he keeps to himself, and catches the interest of the young women only with his secrecy. The young women do not see this, and do not realize that they would not be captivated by him otherwise.
They would not love him if they knew him, because that would ruin the mystery. Splendid men would argue that the women can not love him anyway, since they do not know him, and no one can love someone they do not know. The angel, if he ever spoke, would say this was false.
The angel would stand on the highest platform he could find, or perhaps float above everyone else- he is an angel, after all- and announce to the crowds that you can do it. You can be in love with someone you don't know. Because the angel is in love with someone he does not know.
He speaks through his music, therefore thinking it to be rather unnecessary to use words. With every thought that pops up, he simply hits the keys to release it into the air. With every emotion he feels, a prompt tune follows suit. He does not feel as though he is hiding from the world. He pours every bit of himself into what he performs.
The people have only once seen him anywhere not even remotely close to the piano. It was a windy autumn day, the kind that keeps the people indoors out of fear that the moving air will rustle their appearance the wrong way. The angel walked the streets in solitude.
Leaves were suspended in midair, then spun around till they gently glided to the ground. Once on the ground, they were scattered and such a nuisance. The angel was not wearing gloves like the gardener was, but he stopped to help regardless.
The tobacconist across the street harmlessly peered out the front window of his shop. When he saw that the angel was right there, he ran through the door connecting to the shop next door belonging to his friend the florist.
"You won't believe it!"
"I bet I will."
"No, really. Have a look." The florist scurried over to the window to behold the sight. He soon back away, hand to his chest, nearly speechless.
"Oh, my. That's... extraordinary."
"'Tis, indeed!"
"I wonder what he's doing out there."
"Helping the gardener, looks like it."
"No, I see that. I mean, why is he?"
"I haven't the slightest. But he certainly does look odd without that damn piano."
The gardener willingly accepted the help of the angel, as to be expected. When their work was quite finished, the angel gave a nod and walked away in silence. Never again was he seen without the likes of his piano, at least not by the townspeople.
He composes with ease, the angel does. Each time he plays, it is new, and original. Without failure, he manages to find a different way to express himself with every day, and with every performance. And never does his playing lack emotion. That is one of the things that is so enticing about his music- the pure, raw, deep emotion that you can always count on.
He never bothers to memorize his songs, and he can not read or write music. Some of the people are saddened by this, since it means that his beauty can not be carried on should something happen to his angelic loveliness. But if he truly is an angel, then there is nothing to worry about. He, and his songs of secret love, will live on forever.
-
These people have a strange fascination with me. I am not so interesting, really. They are far more interesting, with their strange fascinations. And their hats; these people loves hats like no other thing in this world. Sometimes I suspect they feast on the hats, though that is a rather silly thought. But me, I only play the piano. It is not as if no one else in the world has ever done such a thing. Perhaps in this town, there have not been so many, but certainly I am not the first. Plus, I have far too much hair to stuff under a hat. The hat would probably fall off in an instant.
What I would like to know is what draws these people to my performances every day. Quite often, it is the same group of men whose faces I am looking at as I briefly scan the crowd before I play. They almost all look the same to me, anyway- hats and cloaks and sometimes monocles or canes- so maybe they are not always actually the same men. But this town is not heavily populated, either, and I suspect that there are not all too many who dress as they do.
Some women will come to watch me every now and then as well. From the times they do, I get the impression that they would like to visit much less sporadically, but perhaps they do not have that option available to them. While I play, they whisper- rather rudely, if I may be quite honest- about little, silly things like the way my hands seem to gracefully glide along the keys. They say that they have never in their lives seen someone so talented, yet so young. I think I have heard the word 'angel' being thrown about rather carelessly, too.
I do absolutely love playing the piano, of course. There is simply nothing else like it. Nothing else that I have experienced in my twenty-six years of living. I find myself being unable to stay away from it. Playing is like some sort of drug to me, coaxing me into the depths of its delectable hypnotism and leaving me desperately begging for more. But it is also an art, a true art, and a brilliant way (the most effective way, I find) for me to express myself.
Every now and then my mother comes to see me. Not during any performances, though she does stay for those, but one day she might just suddenly drop in and start pestering me about my life. There are all the usual questions, like:
“How is my lovely son, then?” she will ask. I sit at the piano, and gently stroke the keys. She knows I will not give an actual answer.
She will sigh and continue, “No girls around, I see,” with a disappointment she tries to pretend to hide. There are indeed no girls around, and I do not expect there to be. After all, I am quite plain. “Well, none are good enough for my handsome boy, anyway.” She will pat the massive chunk of hair sprouting its roots from my scalp, and I will continue to expertly avoid acknowledging her in any way she deems worthy.
Eventually she will leave, finding some matter that is far more important than hanging around being basically ignored by me all day long. I do not blame her, and I can not say I would not do the same in her position. I also feel a little relieved when she leaves, as it lifts the sort of pressuring spotlight she shines over my head. It is far worse than the fancily-dressed men staring holes through my body, probably because at the end of the day, they think I am great or something. My mother thinks I could be great, but I feel like she is always let down. Maybe she should be, but it is not such a nice feeling when people expect more than you can give.
I do not expect a lot from myself. In fact, I do not expect anything. I know I am not capable of much, but I am fine with that. No one seems to mind that all I do is play piano, and for that reason I get everything out of life that I want. Well, almost everything. But at least I do not have to work so hard to earn my living.
After performances, which I never have and never will charge for- I would play exactly the same even if there was no audience, so I see no reason to do so- I will find rather generous donations outside my door. With these, I have no need for any other source of income. I suppose I should be extremely grateful, then, for these people with their strange fascinations and hats. They seem to find something in me that I can not for the life of me see for myself.
I would like to find someone like that, actually. As odd as it sounds, I actually want someone to see something in me that I do not, and like it rather appreciably. Only someone for whom I may do the same, though. If I find nothing remarkable in any of the persons whose acquaintances I have the pleasure of meeting, well, then I would much rather they leave me well alone.
I have never met a truly interesting person. There are not many people at all in this small town, and mostly they are the same basic person anyway. You can change the name, change the hair and eye color, change the complexion, but you absolutely can not change the degree to which a person bores me to death. If it walks on two legs, with perhaps the assistance of an unnecessary cane, and is as pretentious as every other piece of life crawling through these streets, it can be certain that it will not hold my interest.
-
I have one friend. That sounds awful, but it is very true, and I don't mind. His name is Harold. He wears pinstriped pants, usually, along with a maroon vest, and a bowler hat, and I always wonder how it manages to stay on all the time. In this way, I suppose he is like the other people around the town, completely in love with hats, but he is otherwise totally different.
Harold and I live together. He is not always around, though. He is a rather secretive person, but I respect that. Everyone deserves their own privacy, not matter to what extent that person alienates themselves. When I do see him, though, he is of much assistance to me. He offers very helpful advice, and is a great conversationalist. In fact, he is the only person with whom I speak most of the time. Every couple of days or so he shows his face, and he somehow always appears at just the right time.
“Did your mother come by again?” his voice sounded. I lifted my head, which had been laying on the piano, to see him standing next to the bench, the familiar bowler hat sitting atop his head, and a friendly grin stretched wide across his amicable face.
I don't remember when Harold and I met each other. It seems like we have just always been friends, maybe since we were born. When it came time to move out of my parent's home, Harold graciously offered to share a place and split the costs. Since he is hardly around, though, and since I can afford to pay for our living space by myself, I do not bother him with it. Besides, with all the help he has given me over the years, it is the least I can do.
“Yes,” I replied. And I gave a short laugh. The piano sounded gently under my fingertips, which I had not realized had been placed on the keys, so I jumped a little in surprise and snatched my arms back. “How did you know?”
“Well, usually head to piano is a dead giveaway.” He sat down beside me, and stared at the piano keys. It was something that he seemed to do quite often, though I could never figure out why. “What did she say? The usual?”
“Yeah. Nothing I haven't heard before.”
“She's really expecting you to marry soon.” Harold often says things like this- things I know are true, but sometimes I do not realize them, or I just do not feel like being so honest to myself. Harold will always come along and smack a dab of reality in my face, though. Trusty old Harold.
“She is,” I ineffectively agreed. The piano sounded again, this time through actions I conveyed on purpose. I could sense Harold's gaze slide over to my fingers as my improvisational playing continued, stopping only once he spoke again.
“Don't.” I raised an eyebrow questioningly in his direction, and he slowly lifted his head to look at me. “You're not ready for it. It's better to wait until you are ready, even if it disappoints her. Otherwise you and whatever poor girl you pick at random will be miserable, and then you'll bring miserable children into the world. It'll be a huge mess, and the only person who will be even remotely happy will be your mother, who will be a hundred miles away in her own world.”
“You're right,” I nodded. Then I was greeted by the tumultuous hunger to return to playing- a hunger which I gladly catered to.
“Plus,” he jestingly added, “whoever you get married to will probably want me out. And I'll have to go find a nice cardboard box somewhere.”
I laughed, but kept my concentration on the movements of my fingers before me. “I don't think so. You'll stay here, or if you do get a cardboard box, it'll be set up 'round back.”
“But what if your woman doesn't like it?”
“Then my woman can deal,” I said. Then I thought about what I had never thought about before. One day, I would probably be married to someone. She would want to have children, and I would therefore be a husband and father. Then Harold would find his own wife, and they would have children. Maybe we would grow apart. But I don't know what I would do without Harold. I could just stay a bachelor for the rest of my life. That would certainly fix the problem.
“No,” Harold began, answering my unasked question, “I don't think marriage is for me. Maybe I'll find a woman, but I suspect I wouldn't last long in a relationship like that. You might do fine, though.”
“What's the difference if you get married or not?” I inquired. “If you're still going to be with just that one woman?”
“There isn't a difference, really. The whole marriage title is what ruins it, though. People act differently because they think they should act differently.” Harold looked down at the piano keys, blinked a few times. Then he looked back at me. “Good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“You deserve to be married and have a nice family.” Harold sighed and turned down to the piano for a third time. Anguish painted his face a sad work of art, and I truly felt sorry for him, though his following words acknowledged the fact that it should be quite the opposite. “But I get the feeling that you're going to have some difficulties in this area.”
I thought on it briefly. “Because of the people, or because of myself?”
“Could be both, really.” He shrugged and lifted a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “Or neither. Whatever. Point is, keep your eyes open, but don't... well, just be careful.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Harold.”
-
One day, a most strange and magical thing happened to me: I ran out of inspiration. It was just gone. I sat down at the piano, but the keys just looked like unimportant things; they did not speak to me as they usually did, and anyway I had no desire to engage in a conversation with them.
So, I took a stroll outside.
There were no people on the streets. It was an autumn afternoon, and a windy one at that. It was the kind of windy autumn afternoon that keeps the people indoors, out of fear that the movement of air will rustle their appearance the wrong way. Perhaps it will knock their hats off, and they can not have that.
The air was nice, and the leaves were beginning to change color magnificently. Reddish and golden hues leaked through the green foliage with such passionate vigor. Everywhere I looked, I was blessed with the sight of these colors, marching in the trees, and on the ground, and even halfway in between.
I walked endlessly around the town's roads, never once thinking of stopping. It was almost like when I play, except that I had no emotion at this time. I felt empty and blank, and not at all vibrant like the leaves around me. I walked and hoped that some of their brilliance might rub off.
Then I heard the working grunt of a man from somewhere nearby. A gust of wind had just blown its way past, sending this man into a state of utter distress. Lying beside him was what used to be a pile of leaves, but was now just a mess. I watched briefly as the man set about restoring the perfection of the gathered leaves, then decided to lend a bare hand. Yes, I was rather unprepared to help the man, who was wearing very stunningly professional gloves, but I did so anyway.
He looked up at me, momentarily surprised, then abruptly went back to his work. He thrust leaves into a new pile from the left side of the old one, and I weakly pushed them from the right. Though poorly, I lent my aid to him until the job was finished, after he had made absolute certain that the wind could no longer cause mischief in the raking department.
I straightened my back and was just about to quietly exit when the man raised his eyes to me. He glanced, then held his hand out. I tentatively shook it, and the man uttered the words, “Thank you,” with a soft, sweet voice. This was a man, I felt, who should speak more often. He could be a politician with a voice like that. But then, surely anyone with a voice like that would not have the personality to be a politician. In a perfect world, maybe.
I walked on for only the amount of time it took to return home. Something struck a chord in me, so to speak, and had brought out the feeling that I had transiently lacked. But for some reason my wandering legs journeyed beyond the awaiting piano, and headed for my bed. I laid down with no intention of falling asleep, but it seems that nothing you intend to happen does, while the things you do not intend to happen do.
In my unconscious state, I saw many visions colored with familiar tones. First, I was in a room made entirely of gold. The door alone was worth more than everything I own. I was curious as to why I would be in such a room, but no answer was ever provided. I was just there, I suppose. But dreams are weird like that.
Then came a fiery image, burning bright red and crackling like crazy. I took a step back to get a better look, and it seems I was standing aside a fire, as it were. That certainly explained the color, and the noises, and the heat. There was so much heat surrounding me, it was like being very close to a volcano, I would imagine. I fanned myself off, but it did no good, as with each swipe of my hand, the fire enlarged. I began to wonder if I would melt, if my skin would liquefy and slide to the ground, leaving my muscles bare and exposed.
And then it changed again. I was swimming around in a lake. I can not determine the exact amount of clothing I had on, but I do not recall it being much. The water was cold, near freezing, but it felt so refreshing. Especially compared to the fire.
I closed my dream eyes and let the water wash over me. A few minutes later I opened them again, and I noticed that the lake was tinted an unusual color. It was rather green, maybe the result of too much algae. Oh, but it was a lovely green, absolutely awe-inspiring in its pale brightness. The surface was foggy, but even so it was apparent that there was much life hidden deep below. All it took was a dive down to see that the lake was inhabited with so many fascinating and beautiful things.
In the magic of the dream world, I need not return to the open air for any gasps of oxygen. I simply spent my entire time under the water, searching for every hidden treasure that I knew was bound to please me when it was found. Anything the lake had to offer proved to be gorgeous, and every time I discovered something new- some previously unseen plant, or a cute little fish swimmingly innocently in circles around my feet- I loved it and longed for more. I was never disappointed by what I saw, only by what I did not see. And even then, I was only disappointed because I did not see those things.
The next memory I have is that of opening my eyes to see a group of men gathered near my door. They were outside, of course, so I did my duty and let them in, then sat down at the piano. I looked at them all; they were still the same faces I had seen in days past. No matter, because I had a sudden burst of emotion- some lovely emotion very new to me- and once I hit those keys, any and all awareness of the fancily-dressed men went right out the window.
-
A woman with bags under her eyes stood in front of me. I had no idea what she wanted, and I am not convinced she did, either. She held out a paper, written in what looked like English, but the ink was smudged and the penmanship was horrific to begin with, so it could have been written in French for all I know. I took it from her, and tried to read it. After several minutes, I accepted my defeat. I looked up to try to pry some sort of information from the woman, but she was already gone.
Instead, a balding man stood in my field of view. He was squinting at me, looking up because he was rather short, and he wore glasses five times too large for his head. They magnified his eyes to a frightening extent, and to the point where I almost thought I was just staring down at a pair of eyes.
“Wow,” he gaped, seemingly trying to enlarge his eyes. He leaned closer to me, tilting his head as he did so. I simply stared down at him, waiting for an explanation of sorts. The paper stayed loosely in my grip, brushing up against my pant leg.
“You're really tall,” the man went on. “It's magnificent, eh! Splendid, really, how did you get to be so tall?”
I just shrugged, and that seemed to be answer enough for the man. He nodded, still gaping, and neatly walked away. Just as I was about to shut the door, the woman with bags under her eyes slid over from the side. It appeared as though she had simply moved over to let the bald man through.
“That's my father,” she quietly said. I suspected that I was supposed to be stunned by her simplicity. She only wore a simple coat over what looked like it might have been a tattered dress, perhaps a hand-me-down from someone who had not taken such nice care of it. The bags under her eyes made her pupils look grey, and she even had a grey streak running through the front of her otherwise dark hair. Her cheeks were sullen and her lips were turned in a frown.
“He's pretty weird.” I looked at her for a moment longer, and I could see that she was hiding something. Almost as if she wanted to say more, but something was holding her back. Returning my attention to the illegible note, I heard her continue, “I was sent to deliver this to you. Apparently it's from... I don't know, actually. Some man in town.”
I absentmindedly nodded at her, and tried my hardest to make heads or tails of the letter. 'I appricotted it neatly' does not really sound correct at all, but that is what it sure looked like. Then something about bears and clay.
“I think it was from my cousin? But I'm not sure,” the woman said, because I had looked up at her again with a look of absolute confusion. “He has pretty messy writing, I think. I could try to decipher it, if you want.”
She held her hand out, and since I had made no progress, I gave her the paper. Her eyes scanned the page silently for a minute. Then she lifted her head and frowned even more. “Sorry.” She handed back the paper, and stalked away. Before she disappeared completely, though, she turned her head and gave a little wave. I halfheartedly waved back, then immediately returned inside.
I sat down at the piano again without even thinking, and set the paper in front of me. I studied its lines, trying to match letters of words that I could make sense of with letters in the words that in no way fit into the sentences. I still came up short in the end, but I let the paper sit there as I started to play. It proved to be great inspiration.
Halfway through my playing, a group stood outside, and I prepared myself with a sigh, then let them in. I did not even bother to look at any of them first, because I felt like I needed to get this song out of me. So, I continued with my previous playing, and for some reason, this performance felt quite different.
My mind kept replaying images from the dream I had the day before. The lake, especially, and there was this feeling, much like the one from the day before, a feeling that was new to me, and very pressing. It hovered in the air and tried its hardest to penetrate my skin, poking and prodding until it finally got through. Then every time I hit the keys, the feeling grew, and when the song finally finished itself, I looked up at the note resting against the piano and I smiled.
I have no idea what made me feel that way, but I was... happy. It was an airy sort of happiness, light and feathery, and it felt nice. It was inexplicable to me, but I certainly did not question it. I have never felt that sort of happiness before, and I did not want it to become too airy and fly away.
I watched the men leave, their coats dragging along their feet, and something told me that my life was about to change. Our lives are always changing, of course, but perhaps, then, my life was about to change in a much greater way than it ever had before. And I was at least intelligent enough to realize that this change most probably had something to do with this interesting and illegible letter.
Possibly the first change came that night. I dressed in my nightwear, and readied myself for a good, long rest. As I passed the piano, I glimpsed at the note, and some extension of the airy happiness pushed me to take it from its resting place. Without further ado, I slipped into my bed and closed my eyes, the note laying gently in the space between my hand and heart as I slept.
-
“What's that?” Harold asked. Judging by his tired look, he must have been sitting and waiting for me to wake up for quite a while. He pointed to the paper that was still being pinned to my chest by my hand. I looked down, lifted it up, then sat up myself.
“It's a letter. Someone sent it to me yesterday.” I smoothed it out across the surface of my lap and admired its mystery. The paper was rather crinkled, and even a little tattered, though I had not had it in my possession for that long.
Harold scratched at his chin as he watched me. “Why were you sleeping with it?”
“I don't know.”
Harold took a breath, louder than his others, but not in a threatening way, and he leaned forward. “Who is it from?”
My eyes met his and I shrugged my shoulders. “Don't know that, either. And I don't know what it says.”
“You want it to be a love note, don't you?”
I found that my lips involuntarily curved upwards. My heart even fluttered at the thought. “Well, that would be nice. I hardly think it is.” A sudden vision of water set my mind racing, and I quickly hopped off the bed, leaving the note behind. “Harold, you wouldn't happen to know of any lakes nearby, would you?”
“No, I'm afraid I don't. May I ask why?” I could hear a hint of boredom or tiredness in his voice, like he had dealt with my craziness one too many times before. That was a thing to love about Harold, though; even if he was bored to tears by you, he would not say it, and would still gladly lend any and all knowledge to the matter at hand. A true friend, if I do say so myself.
“You may always ask why, Harold, but that doesn't mean you'll get an answer.” I glided over to the nearest window and gently pulled back the curtains. There was a lovely tree right outside the house that I had always loved. Its leaves were still green for the most part, which made me happy. Though the changing colors are always pretty, I love it more when the tree is green. It reminds me of spring, and gives me an airy feeling. “I had the most marvelous dream the other day.”
“Involving a lake?” Harold so rightly interjected.
“Involving a lake, quite. I was just wondering if it had anything at all to do with reality.”
“Well, some say that dreams are the brain's way of working things out. It could have something to do with this life.”
“In that respect, then, I'd say you're like a dream to me.” I stepped away from the curtains to look at Harold. He was still sitting beside my bed, and I could sense that he wanted to grab the letter and read it. Not that it would do him much good. “Really, what would I do without your kind words of wisdom?”
“Probably what you do now, just... you wouldn't ever talk to anyone.” He smiled, and I smiled back. Then he let his restrictions loose and glanced at the paper on my bed. His head was bent down at a really low level, yet the bowler hat remained motionless on his head. It was a mind-boggling sight to behold. “I'm always glad to help, surely. But I think it's time for me to be off.”
“Why?” He gave a small nod in the direction of the window, which I then proceeded to peer out of. Harold had managed to foresee the arrival of several fancily-dressed men, all of whom were now standing at my door. “Oh, it's that late already? Or they're early...”
I spun around, and like the sneaky man he is, Harold had already disappeared. Not surprisingly, though, as I find quite often that his exits are very subtle and he is gone in the blink of an eye. It was of no importance now, though, as I had guests to tend to. Guests who all looked the same when I first saw them enter.
And I had never thought about it until that very moment, but the piano keys are all always the same as well. Yet, somehow, there is always that one key that sticks out to me, the one that I graciously choose to begin with. This time it was a lower note than usual, around the area of Middle C- not an ordinarily low note, sure, but I had been favoring the right side of my piano rather greatly as of late- though I can not remember the particular note.
I did not bother to even look up once until I was finished. I had this strange feeling growing inside me. It was an excitement much like that of a young child on Christmas morning, but with seemingly no reason to exist at the present moment. The piano and I bonded extraordinarily well, the excitement being the paste that held us together. I did glance up just before I finished, but it was only for a fraction of a second. Something caught my eye, though, and I decided that my song was complete.
When I looked back up, I saw that I had not been fooled; there, standing amongst the fancily-dressed men and their hats, was the gardener I had helped only two days prior. He looked at me as I watched him with wide eyes, and I had the feeling that he knew what I was thinking. He seemed a little uncomfortable, so I turned my gaze to somewhere else in the room, which happened to be the piano. After I was certain that everyone had left, I finally looked up again.
He was still there. He was leaving, though. Something inside of me did not like that, so I reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
He turned around, slowly, because he was rather surprised. As was I; I hardly expected my vocal chords to do much of anything around people I did not know, or even around people I did know. But there we were, I having just spoken rather strangely, and he having just had quite a shock. I suddenly felt as though holding onto him was as bad as staring with large eyes for long periods of time, so I released my hand and began to step back. I was not sure what to do, though my brain seemed to have a plan all mapped out for me. After I had taken a few steps back, I nodded and thanked him for coming. That was where the plan ended, and rather awkwardly, I felt. So, I went back to my safe haven at the piano. Finding nothing else to do there, I started to play. I think I was trying to talk to him with the piano, though I did not expect him to stay and listen.
-
Half an hour later, there was a knock on my door. I could not imagine who it was, since I did not think anyone would wish to see me other than my mother or Harold, and neither of them bothered to or even needed to knock. So, it was with questioning eyes that I answered the door.
Looking rather distressed, in a different outfit than I had last seen him in, was the gardener. I let him in without either of us saying anything, and gestured an offer of a seat on the piano bench. He shook his head, staring at the bench as though he has just been offered to sit with the Queen.
“I was wondering if you got my letter?” he fretfully mentioned in his sweet voice. He lowered his head and watched his shoes intently. “I suppose I should have delivered it myself.”
“I received it, yes.” He looked up at me, begging me to go on. “But I have no idea what it says.”
“Oh.” His cheeks turned a rather bright pink, which I thought was interesting. “I'm terribly sorry about that. I suppose I should have just told you myself, rather than fuss over a letter which you wouldn't be able to read, anyway.”
“It's all right,” I began, setting myself up nicely for horrible awkwardness, “It was very nice to receive a letter. Even if I found it illegible.” He blushed more, which I now had mixed feelings about. On the one hand, it was interesting; on the other hand, I felt bad about embarrassing him. I did not mean to, of course. I was simply stating a fact.
“Well, it's not so important anymore. I just wanted to thank you for helping me the other day and...” he paused thoughtfully, probably trying to remember the rest of his message. In the end, he shook his head in defeat. “That was it, basically.”
“It was nothing,” I replied as the blushing spread to my own cheeks, apparently contagious. But I was not embarrassed, I was just flustered. I had to carefully mull over every single thing I said to make sure it sounded absolutely perfect. But that sounded crazy to me. In the midst of this stranger, I was actually caring about the way I presented myself.
He opened his mouth several times, starting about twenty different sentences before finally deciding upon, “I appreciated it. People aren't usually so... kind.”
“Are you sure you wouldn't like to have a seat?” I asked in desperation. The thing inside me that was saddened the last time he left had showed its face again, doing no less damage to my demeanor than before. The desire to speak coursed through my body, though my voice sounded a pitch far too high, and I had the inkling that my eyebrows were contorted into some sort of worried shape. “I do have other chairs if the piano is too intimidating for you.”
The worst part about my behavior was that I was trying to persuade him to stay when he was not even about to leave yet. I am afraid that it was my over-generosity that ironically coerced him to return home.
“Um... no,” he answered when I asked if I would see him within the next few days. “I'm leaving on holiday for two weeks, starting tomorrow.” When my disappointment had outwardly displayed itself on the shelf of my face, I noticed a similar frown come across his visage. “When I come back... I'll stop by.”
“Yeah,” I pointlessly agreed, making myself feel like even more of an idiot. Then, to even things out, I added, “You can stop by whenever you like,” which in truth did not even things out at all. It merely gave me this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach like I had just been rejected.
But he smiled just before he left, and that repaired a little of my dignity. Then I went to sit at the piano bench, the seat which he had so timidly denied. I looked down at the piano and sighed, rather unsure of myself. The only thing I was sure of was that I had made myself look like a complete dunce. I would not have been surprised if the gardener decided to never show up again. In fact, I decided to convince myself he would not show up again.
As I sat at the piano, I repeated it over and over that he was not coming back ever, and that I should just deal with that. Accept it for what it is, then move on. But my attempts were smoldered by recollections of things I had said, things he had said, and all the little actions in between. It was like I was trapped in a prison of my own stupidity. Then I found myself, instead of conveying the idea that he would not return, whispering little things like, He's bound to come back. He's going to come back. And perhaps next time I would be prepared.
Then I began to wonder why I was so jittery and annoyed. People came to see me all the time, sometimes they tried to talk to me, but I never gave any of them a second thought. I barely even gave them a first thought. But this man, all I could do was give him thoughts, and eventually I uncovered a reason.
I found him interesting.
Really interesting, especially when it came to the shy tint of his cheeks and his overall reserved manner. The way he looked up from his shoes, but still spoke as if addressing the floor. He had changed his clothes in the mere half hour that he had been gone for, and as I wondered why, I respected that neither of those outfits included cloaks. He did wear a hat, though. Nothing can be perfect.
Then I remembered his smile as he left, and I tried to hold onto the image for as long as I could. That odd, airy happiness returned to me as I thought back and noticed that his eyes were green. Pale, but with such life behind them that I had never seen before in any person I have come across. I sat there for a long time, eventually coming to the definite conclusion that he was not just interesting. He was beautiful.
-
Women hardly ever come to see me, and when they do, I do not recognize them. Of course, there are always exceptions. This exception was the woman with the grey streak who had so generously delivered the letter a few days earlier. I immediately recognized her, but did not think it worthy to give her any further acknowledgment. She thought it worthy to help herself to a seat beside me once everyone else had gone.
“You really are marvelous,” she delicately stated. I detected an amorous quality in her gaze, which laid upon me in a rather uncomfortable way. “I'll bet you have girls all over you everywhere you go.”
I do not know what point she was getting at; did she mean to only tell me I was great? I did not believe that anyway, so her words were useless. But she spoke with such a grace that I decided to give her a shot.
“But you don't bat a lash at them. Why is that?” I looked at her tiredly and blinked a few times. Perhaps she took that as a sign that I was paying attention to her. I suppose I was. “Oh, you're so mysterious!”
She smiled brightly, though its shine had no effect on me. Actually, she looked a lot more lively all around this time, with more color in her eyes and cheeks. Even her dress looked more lively. I found none of this impressing, but it did remind me of something- something she had said to me the last time I had seen her.
“Is your cousin the gardener?” I asked. Rather than appearing surprised, as I was convinced she would, she looked pleased.
“So, you do talk!” she laughed, then took the liberty of moving her seat closer to mine. “I believe he's something like that, yes. Sent that letter to you, didn't he? I swear, he has to have the worst handwriting on the planet. It's simply atrocious!”
“It is rather difficult to understand,” I agreed, which seemed to please her even more. Before long, I found myself sharing the piano bench with her slim, pale figure. “Though I don't know about calling it atrocious.” As much as I knew about him, I would not have said any bit of him was atrocious. But she did not need to know that.
“Well,” she tentatively began, a little upset that I seemed to have been disappointed by what she said, “it is awful, at least. I don't know how he can even read it.” She sprung her eyes up, and shook off her brief sadness. “Enough about that. Can I know more about you?”
I narrowed my eyes in slight disgust, hoping that she would get the hint and decide to leave on her own. But she did not, and over time I developed an indifference to her presence. “I suppose... if you want. What would you like to know?”
She took a minute to think, carefully picking her first question in the event that it would also happen to be her last. She tilted her head at me having finally chosen. “What do you like to do, besides playing the piano?”
“Ah, that's a short answer. Nothing.” She frowned at the quickness and readiness with which the words flowed from me, and seemed to think that maybe I was lying. She looked momentarily down at the piano with indecisive eyes.
“So, you just sit at the piano all day?” she asked in an incredulous tone. Her dark hair flowed around her shoulders as she shook her head at me. “I know there is so much more to you than that.”
“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” I replied, falsely for the most part. There was just nothing else for me to respond with. She bought it, half-smiling her acceptance of my faux apology.
“You don't disappoint me, don't worry,” as if I was agonizingly worried, “and what's not to love about a mysterious man?” She leaned closer in a slightly non-threatening way, though her proceeding grin and sigh were both of a definite worrisome nature. She ran her eyes down my body, leaving me feeling much more uncomfortable than I have ever felt.
“I-” She cut me off before I could even start my sentence, standing up and gently placing her hand on my shoulder. The touch was even more discomforting than everything else she had done. She was trying to setup a nice foundation, but she dug a hole without even realizing it, and every move she made unintentionally deepened and widened it still without her knowledge. She honestly believed one day a nice house would sprout from her hard work, but it was all just going to crumble in the end.
“It's all right. I must be going now. But,” she lowered her face to the level of mine, swinging her hair over one shoulder, “I'll be back tomorrow, and we can chat more.” She smiled and walked away, taking with her an air that made it seem like she felt important. Like she was to be the one who would finally uncover the great non-mystery that is my life.
My indifference towards her waned back to a general dislike, but I wanted to talk to her more, simply to discover what made people like her tick. With the connections most of these people have, they have the entire world at their fingers, yet they are entertained by such a trivial thing as one man's personal life, and they choose to be entertained by little else. I wondered how long I would have to suffer in their company if I wanted a true answer. Surely, as this woman had believed that I could not simply be torn apart in one short conversation, it would take many long observations to understand these people. I simply hoped it would be worth it.
-
She insisted that we not stay inside the entire time, so not long after she arrived, we found ourselves seated beside the large tree in front. The leaves, now a much redder color than before, fell down between us and rested in the space between our legs.
“My, it's an absolutely marvelous day, isn't it?” she chirped, looking up at the sky, then expectantly at myself. I nodded a satisfactory answer, and she blinked her eyes back up to the sky. “I wish every day was this beautiful. And to be able to sit here with you,” she sighed, “is wonderful.”
I watched as she bathed in the sunlight, wondering the entire time what it was that gave her that grey streak. She did not look that old, in fact, I was under the impression that she was younger than I. Regardless, something must have set it off. I thought about asking her, then remembered that I hate to speak.
“It's been a few days since we last saw each other. Has anything new happened?” she asked, as though she really thought that something new would have happened. Nothing new happened, of course, and I therefore felt it adequate to shake my head. “Well, something new happened to me!”
I waited for her to go on, but it began apparent quite shortly that she wished for me to ask her what before she would say. Reluctantly, I asked her, and she beamed at me brightly.
“I met this man who lives just down the road from my family. He's my age, too! It's great, I think... though, we're not sure just yet if he's married or not. I suppose if he is married, then it's not so great, huh?” She frowned, though her eyes were still hopeful.
“If you're only looking to marry him, then I would say that's not so great,” I replied. A single leaf dropped down before either of us spoke again, one of the few leaves left with very little color other than green in it. I grabbed the leaf and twirled it around by its stem, mostly out of boredom. It was actually rather entertaining, I thought; it was certainly more entertaining than she was.
“Well, I mean, we could be friends,” she laughed incredulously. “I don't try to marry every man I meet!”
“No, of course not,” I said, trying to sound as indifferent as I could. I hoped that maybe if I could sound as though I did not care about her, which was mostly true, then maybe she would just leave. She had already been coming over for a week, and I did not see why she continued to do so, each time expecting everything to have changed. Everything would not change, I believed, at least not in a few days.
“And you don't try to marry every girl you meet, either!” she laughed again, this time with hints of bitterness seeping through. Part of me wanted to laugh back at her ridiculousness, but I thought it rude to do so, and therefore I kept my mouth shut. Although, that could also be construed as impolite.
In any case, we were both silent for quite some time after that. I was still preoccupied with the leaf, and she was preoccupied with my preoccupation, it seemed. I could feel her eyes piercing through the leaf, or perhaps trying to incinerate it and steal my focus back.
“Autumn is such a lovely season, isn't it?” she mused. “What with all of the color... it's beautiful.” She quickly looked up at the tree, then at me. It became one of those uncomfortable and awkward moments where I knew she meant me, but I certainly did not feel that way, even about myself. “The earth shows its beauty one last time before it hides for winter. Or maybe winter is just as lovely, with the nice blankets of snow.”
“Winter is cold and dead,” I interrupted, perhaps a bit too snappishly. “Autumn is like watching someone drown, and you can't do anything about it.”
She laughed, smiling widely and patting my arm. “You are so funny, you know that? Where do you get such a dashing sense of humor?”
“Hmm, was something I was born with, it seems.” I finally set the leaf down on the ground to join its fellow brethren, though I felt a sad pang shortly after.
“And you were born playing piano, too, I bet.”
“Yes, that's how I came into the world. It was on a piano bench.” I suspect she thought I was being serious; that or she knew I was joking, and for some reason found it not as funny as everything else. She just stared at me, and I stared back. She smiled appreciatively, and decided that moving her hand on top of mine was the right thing to do.
“It's getting late,” she said. It was nowhere near 'late'- not that I minded her beginning of what appeared to be a farewell speech. Perhaps the other speeches she had given in days prior had stripped her of new and original words, so she opted instead to cut the actual vocalization, and placed her lips boldly against my cheek. I did not react whatsoever, which seemed to go unnoticed under her absorbed persistence; momentarily she looked as though she was upset about it, but it proved only to be a consequence of her changing facial expression.
“I don't think I have time to visit tomorrow. Busy schedule, you know. But I'll certainly come back day after, certainly.” Her redundancy was supposed to be quirky, and affirming that she really did want to see me again. It made her seem a little unintelligent, also.
“Great.” She stood up and began to walk away, sneaking a look back before she reached the street, probably to make sure that I was watching her as she left. I wonder how she felt when she saw that I wasn't; by that time, I am sure I had already returned inside, sat down at the piano in hopes of drowning my boredom and pestering loneliness.
-
“The gardener, really? What did he send it for, then?” Harold sounded surprisingly unaware, as ordinarily he would have known exactly what was going on ages before I would, and would have been glad to rub that information in my face, if not in an entirely intentional way.
“He wanted to thank me.” The most wonderful thing about my connection with Harold, in my opinion, is the ability I have to tell him anything and not be afraid of him thinking I am crazy or being disgusted. It was with this in mind that I boldly stated, “I like him.”
“You love him,” Harold corrected, and it was at that moment that Harold quickly returning to his normal all-knowing self became apparent. And, after a week and a half spent thinking of little else beside the gardener, I began to think Harold was right.
“Oh, I suppose.” To stifle any giddy laughter, I bit down on my lip, perhaps a little too hard. I held the letter up to the light, and tried once more to read it, though not many of the words were much more legible than before. Still, I enjoyed that airy happiness I felt when I read it. “He is rather lovely, don't you think?”
“He is nice,” Harold agreed, though I was not sure he even knew much about the gardener. I suppose I did not, either. “He's a good match for you, even if he is... you know, not a woman.”
I set the letter down on top of the piano, keeping a firm hand resting on its surface. “You're so understanding, Harold, I love it.”
“Oh, please. What's to understand, even? You're in love, it's not as though that's completely unheard of amongst the human race.” I wanted to shake my head and tut at Harold, but I for some reason decided against it. Tiredly swinging my legs around the piano bench, I headed off for bed, abruptly giving Harold a farewell before I left the room entirely.
A surprise waited for me in the darkness of my bedroom; it seems that my mother had decided to visit, yet not to make her presence known. I wondered how she could have slipped past my notice, then I thought that maybe she had walked in at one of the times when the gardener's cousin was chatting with me, as she had insisted that we take a quick stroll around the back garden, and it was very likely that anyone could have entered my house without my knowledge at that point. In any event, my mother was sitting on my bed, nearly in the dark, and waiting patiently for my entrance.
“Oh!” I said, shocked if that was not apparent, which I immediately realised must have been the first word I had said to her in quite some time. My mother wasted no time getting to her point, though, without even another single word from myself.
“What is that letter you're holding, hmm?” she asked with a disregardful nosiness that she always seemed to carry with her. “May I see it?”
She walked up to me and took it without my permission, but I said and did nothing, as nothing would have stopped her anyway. It was all right, though, as I had nothing to hide, really. Her eyes scanned the page fervently, and when she found no satisfactory answer she flung the paper back into my hands. Then she looked at me motherly and tilted her head.
“I hear you've been talking to that girl in town. How is she?”
“Lovely,” I replied, and my mother did not pick up on the sarcasm. She never did, which I always found odd, since mothers are usually very intuitive about this sort of thing.
“You know,” she began, lowering her voice and leaning in close, “you really ought to take better care of that bed of yours. It's a wreck, you know that? How can you sleep on something that's that hard as a rock?”
“Well, it doesn't bother me.”
“Oh, nothing bothers you,” she replied with bitterness that only an ignorant man could miss. She often spoke to me in such a manner, so I was rather expectant of it.
“Right. Now, if you'll excuse me,” I said, sliding past her and over to the bed which she so strongly disapproved of. “Goodnight, mother.”
“Goodnight, dearest. Next time, I hope we can see more of each other.” She left quickly, and I hoped as I watched her walk away that we would not see more of each other the next time. In fact, I would rather we see less of each other the next time. Of course, I am aware of the unintended consequences and jinxes that saying something like that brings with it, but honestly those are not things that I find all too terrible. Men should love and respect their mothers, but I find that too difficult to achieve fully. It is not as if she ever has anything kind to say to me.
As the darkness grew around me and swallowed me in its massiveness, I thought of the short distance in time left until the promised return of the gardener. At least, I hoped that he would show again, if not only for a performance one day. Certainly, if he only showed up to watch me play, I might be able to hold him back longer and maybe then I would not be so jumpy and frantic as I was the last time. Maybe then he would want to stay, and actually sit down.
There were still a few days left, though, so I had plenty of time to fantasize about all sorts of various ways for the gardener to reappear. Neither of them really weighed more than the others, since they need not be fancy entrances or sparkling greetings; I would just be glad to see the man with the shimmering green eyes once more.
-
The gardener's cousin made her incomparable stop another time before the two week mark was up. She had maybe started to soften to me, in that I did not find her nearly as annoying as I had the first few times. Maybe she had finally caught on to my dislike, and decided to change her manner a bit so as to not irritate me further. Or maybe I was changing.
Or maybe, in my total joy, the idea that the gardener would return to my doorstep shortly had numbed me to any sort of annoyance the world had to offer. In fact, I think I had received a nice paper cut from the letter, which I still kept with me at all times, but I hardly even noticed it, and it was a pretty deep one if it actually existed.
Then it happened. I was just sitting at the piano, intermittently tapping the keys, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. Something made me believe that I knew exactly who it was, and as I answered the door I found that belief was not at all wrong.
“Come in,” I immediately said, making room for him to enter and not even bothering with a “hello”- in retrospect, and I thought about this even two seconds after I had already done it, I really should not have skipped the greeting like that. Nevertheless, what was done was done, and he gladly accepted the invitation anyway.
“Um, you said to just drop by whenever, so...” He nervously glanced around the room. “I'm not interrupting anything am I?”
“Heavens, no. I was just playing... You're welcome to join me, if you want.” He looked at the piano, which I had been gesturing to, and hesitantly inched toward its direction. I sat down on the bench, whereas he stopped along the side of the piano itself, and I could tell that he was uncomfortable with even being given permission to sit there. As I started to play, though, he began to loosen up.
“I just got back about an hour ago,” he quietly mentioned. His thumb brushed against the frame of the piano, then he quickly pulled his hand back like it was a sin. “But there was nothing for me to do at home, and I had promised to see you again.”
“Absolutely nothing for you to do? So you don't have any family with you or anything?”
“Well, I'm not married,” he shyly said, and I noticed that he moved a little closer to where I was sitting. “The only family I have live around here, but not with me.”
“Do you like your family?”
“They're all right, I suppose.” He gave a short laugh and moved even closer. “I hear that you and my cousin are getting along rather well.”
“Ah, yes. She's come 'round quite a few times.” This time he made the biggest move of all, ending by resting beside me on the piano bench.
“Are you going to marry her?” he very bluntly asked. I stopped playing and looked at him, then shrugged shortly.
“I might.” Though I had no real intentions on doing so, something told me not to flat out deny the possibility of such a marriage occurring. In his eyes, as I watched, I saw that knowing flash that so often lit upon Harold's eyes.
“But you don't love her.” I smiled at his accuracy, perhaps with a mischievous undertone.
“No.” He sighed at the response, and narrowed his eyes ponderously.
“Why would you marry someone if you didn't love them? Just because?”
“I suppose that could be the reason.”
“You should marry someone that you love,” he said, with an emphasis on love that made me shiver.
“I should. It's not always that simple, is it?” He thought for a moment, twisting his mouth in an adorable shape, then nodded.
“I guess you're right.” Involuntarily- because I really did not want to hint at too much too soon- I smiled at him and his loveliness. Perhaps it only appeared that I was smiling at his acceptance of my point, which could have made me seem a bit smug, another thing I also did not really want to do, though I suppose that was the lesser of two evils.
“So, your holiday was good, then?” He shook off the slight defeat his face was holding, and smiled with a brightness in his eyes that made me feel a little queasy.
“It was great. I went to this place in Italy... amazing. The architecture was just beautiful, and the people were pretty nice, I thought.” He looked down at the piano, a moment which I took to drop my guard and stare at him with as much emotion as I could muster, then he lifted his eyes once more and I collected myself. “When I was there, I went to see some pianist guy play.”
“Really?” was all I could offer to say. He seemed to want to make some sort of point, but was struggling to do so.
“Yeah. And the people there basically praised him like some sort of god... almost like you, I guess.” That smiled showed itself again, even more hypnotizing than the last time. “But I went to see him, and you're so much better.”
“Oh, well, that's very kind of you to say-”
“No, it's true.” A fear dashed across his pupils, frightened that his interruption had angered me or something. It stayed, but softened as he went on, “No one could play like you. There's just this... emotion in your playing that no one else could compare with.”
“I, well... uh... I guess, thank you.” The room's temperature was increasing at an alarming rate, my heartbeat was loosing its steadiness, and someone had run past and splashed red on my cheeks. I felt terrible and dizzy with happiness at the same time. People would often compliment me on my playing, but no one ever spoke with such passion and persuasion- enough to make me begin to believe it was actually true- as he did.
-
“Have you ever been in love, Harold?” He thought for a moment, frowned at the piano, then shook his head.
“Not even close.” He looked up at me with what seemed to be envious eyes. “You're very lucky, you know that? Love is a wonderful thing.”
“And how would you know, if you've never known the feeling?”
“All right,” he said in defeat. “It seems like it would be a wonderful thing. You're still very lucky.”
“Am I?” I asked. “It would appear that luckier things have happened in the world, the least of which being that I never have to work to survive.”
“What you do is work,” Harold affirmed. He reached his hand out to the piano keys, nearly pressed down, then pulled his hand back. “You were lucky, yes, to be born with such a talent, but that doesn't mean you don't work with it. It's not easy, this stuff.”
“Anyone can learn to play piano, Harold,” I laughed. Even Harold was too kind to me oftentimes.
“Ah,” he said, wagging his finger at me, “but not anyone can learn to play it well.” I shook my head at Harold, then sat silently for a moment.
“He told me I played with some sort of unique emotion. When I spoke to him yesterday,” I added. I assumed that, being himself, Harold would understand what and who I was referring to without needing specifications. “He said I was the best. I almost believed him.”
“Wow, that's a feat, surely,” he laughed. I laughed along and nodded.
“It is, but, Harold, you should have heard him speak. His voice alone is so soft and delicate... his words just melt out and wrap themselves around you.” I could not help smiling at the thought. “If he asked, I would probably be so taken with his manner that I would commit murder for him. If he asked,” I repeated, because I did not want Harold getting the idea that the lovely gardener would ever be so cruel as to ask someone to commit murder for him. I would do it, though.
“That's an impressive amount of love you're holding there,” Harold remarked. “I never knew you could love so much, especially someone you hardly know.”
“But I feel like I do know him,” I said. “I feel like I've known him forever, and I only just realized that I love him.”
“You're quite a character. Maybe he loves you, too.” My eyes dashed open and I swung my head in Harold's direction. I could not believe that he would say such a thing, to give so much hope like that.
But I had little time for gaping, as soon I heard a voice ask, “Who are you talking to?”
I spun around to see the gardener waiting at the door. It seemed as though he had only just arrived, and I assumed he had heard muffled voices speaking from inside.
“Harold,” I easily responded, gesturing behind me, but as I turned I found that Harold had already left. “He's quick, that man.”
“So he is,” he said. “I hope you don't mind me coming over here like this-”
“No, of course not,” I beamed. I wanted to smack myself for all the enthusiasm I was exuding, and I tried to calm myself to not seem so jumpy. “Please, have a seat.”
He reluctantly accepted, slowly making his way over to the piano. When he finally did sit down, I felt sweat leak its way through my palms. I closed my hands to hide it, but I was soon wrought with the urge to play. The piano would surely hide my nervousness, I thought, so I entertained the urge and began to play. But I faltered a little as my hands began to shake.
He was watching me, and the feeling of his eyes upon my being was so intense that it caused me to shake a bit harder. I felt like a complete wreck, and I was beginning to hate myself for it.
Everything was only made worse when he stopped me and grabbed my hands. It was hard to believe what was happening, and even now it is hard to believe. He reached over, pulled my hands away from the piano, and just held them in his own. I looked at him, confused and worried, and he stared back with a knowing look in his eyes.
“Are you OK?” he asked, calmly and plainly. I nodded, breathlessly, and he narrowed his eyes a little. I was about to repeat my question, but before I had the opportunity, his breath was streaming out in a space just inches away from my ear. Then, in such a way that made me want to scream, he whispered, “If you have feelings for me, don't you think I deserve to know about them?”
He pulled away, and all that was left to do was stare into his eyes. The shaking was at its worst, but he expected an answer. I was surprised at how quickly it seemed to pour from me. “I... I find you extraordinarily compelling.”
“Compelling,” he repeated, neither questioningly or thoughtfully. He just repeated it. Then he looked down at our combined hands, and stroked his thumb across the back of my hand.
“You're not like anyone else,” I added, though perhaps it was unnecessary. “You're kind and sweet and you don't think that you're more important than everyone else. You make me actually want to speak, rather than just keep quiet and play piano. I don't know what it is, but...”
I was not exactly cut off, as I had basically run out of words anyway, but I was certainly prevented from speaking further by the presence of his lips on my own. As if I was not already enough of a wreck. Then, when he looked into my eyes, I could have died as he asked, quietly in that soft voice, “Is that what you wanted?”
-
“You're trying to embarrass me, aren't you?” I asked, pulling my hands away from his and turning to hide. He leaned closer and I shivered a little. I nearly shivered again when I felt his hand clasp my shoulder. His grip was gentle, but firm, the way one would expect a gardener's grip to be.
“How would I embarrass you?” he asked, confused.
“You'll get me all riled up, then laugh and run away.” It felt like tears were trying to squeeze their way out into the world, but I forced them back, as I did not want to embarrass myself, either. He stared at me, incredulously, and he had every right to.
“You really think I would do that?” He was quiet, and sounded hurt, which he definitely should have.
“No,” I admitted, turning to look into his beautiful green eyes once more. “But I also didn't think you'd kiss me.”
He raised one eyebrow and said, “I'll do it again,” almost threateningly. Then, as if to prove he was not lying, he leaned forward and pressed our lips together once more. I suppose Harold was right about my luck.
It turned out that I was more vocal with that last sentence than I had been aware of at first. His immediate response was, “Who's Harold?”
“Oh, Harold is my best friend,” I answered. “We've known each other... since we were born, I think.”
“That's impressive,” he said in an almost blank sort of way.
“Yeah. I would introduce you, but I'm afraid that once he leaves, there's no telling when he'll be back.”
“And he's the one you were talking to when I came in?” he asked, receiving an answer in the form of a nod. He grabbed one of my hands again and gave it a small squeeze. “Are you sure you're OK?”
“What do you mean?”
“It's just that...” He paused, took a breath. It looked like it pained him to continue, but he did so anyway. “Well, when I came in, there wasn't anyone in here besides you.”
“Right, because Harold left so quickly,” I said, waving my free hand to show that it was nothing. “He always disappears like that.”
“No,” he said, slowly and pointedly. The pained expression intensified as he looked straight at me. “I was standing there for a few minutes- that's how I knew about... you know. But you were talking... to yourself, it seemed.”
“Are you trying to say that you think I was hallucinating or something?” I asked in a shrill tone. I could not believe what I was hearing. This man, who I loved and who seemed to feel the same about me, was telling me that I was just imagining my best friend. It was absurd, to say the least.
His answer disappointed me. “I'm sorry,” he said, though sincerely, but his apology did nothing.
“You should be!” I tore my hand from him and tried to move away. “I knew you didn't really care, that you're just trying to embarrass me.”
“That's not-”
“Well, now you can just leave.” The words came out before I had a chance to think about them, but once they were out in the open, I did not regret saying them as much as I should have. Deep down, I wanted him to stay, but I just could not handle what he was saying. “Please, just go.”
The pain turned to sadness, and he frowned with watery eyes as he quietly said, “I'm sorry.” He obliged my wishes, and soon walked out the doorway. I missed him as soon as he stood up from the piano bench, but I needed him to leave. I was angry, if not only because I knew. I knew that what he was saying was true, but I could not bring myself to believe it.
It all made sense. I had no recollection of actually meeting Harold, no recollection of ever meeting his family, every time I saw him he disappeared quickly and without me seeing his departure. It was incredibly difficult, though, to understand that the only person who I ever felt absolutely comfortable around was just an extension of myself.
It forced me to reexamine almost everything that I had ever done. My life was completely different now, and it did not seem like my life at all. It was some stranger's life. I did finally, after hours of sitting at the piano, blankly staring across the room, accept the awful truth.
But it was too late, and not just in that it was now nighttime. There was no way for me to bring the gardener back, as I had no clue where he lived, and I hated to go around town anyway. Surely, he would not have wanted to come back of his own accord, especially since he probably assumed I was still angry and would be for quite some time.
So, I had lost something that I never thought could be real, all because of something that never was real. I would have given anything to get it back, because even though I only experienced it for an extremely short time, I had never known such happiness as when he sat so close, holding my hands in his and just making eye contact. Those eyes, the green lakes I so longed to dive into and search, had looked back at me with massive affection, and that was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Then it was gone, and it was my fault. I still felt terrible, but now I felt it in combination with head-pounding dizziness.
The only thing left for me to do, really, was to hope. Sit, hope, and play the piano. Although, there was one thing I was certain I could count on: the gardener's cousin was bound to show up again.
-
As predicted, she knocked on my door a few days later, a wide smile stretched across her face, though it looked forced. Her hair was a little different, like perhaps it had been cut or something, and she was wearing a dress that looked much nicer than all of her other ones.
“Hey,” she said, squeezing her way inside as if she had been invited in. “I'm terribly sorry that I haven't visited in a few days. Family matters, you know.”
“Actually, I wouldn't,” I quietly said, shutting the door and walking over to the piano. Naturally, she sat down beside me, cooing with delight as I began to play. For several minutes she batted her long lashes at me, thinking it something of an impressive standard.
“Why don't you write any of your music down?” she inquired. I did not answer right away, mostly because I needed time to think of an answer. I was not entirely sure why, it was just something I had always done. Or never done, actually.
“It wouldn't feel right,” I pulled out of the air. It felt half-false, but I knew then there was at least fifty percent truth in it. “I never play the same thing twice, anyway.”
“Oh, but you could write it down, and then other people could play it,” she suggested in her squeaky voice. It was then that I noticed how much she had changed in the few weeks I spent associating with her. She was much more glamorous now, it seemed, but I was no more moved than I had been when she first came to my door, clutching in her hand the letter that I kept safely underneath my pillow. “Then again, no one could play like you.”
I had been growing even wearier of the kind words the people spoke at me ever since they had ceased coming from a soft voice. Well, some of the voices could have been considered soft, I suppose, but they were not the soft voice, and that was all that mattered.
“I don't even know how to write music, anyway.” She straightened up at this, her eyes wide with shock.
“Really? So, you can't read music, either?” I shook my head, and in response she squealed. “Oh my, you are even more talented than I thought!” The high pitch her voice was set in scratched at my ear drums and tried to convey the message that she was going to shower me with undying worship now. I tried to ignored it, but that certainly did not make it stop. “I bet you're the only person in the whole world who can play piano without reading music.”
“I'll bet I'm not.” It was not so much modesty as it was honesty; I knew for a fact that there were at least two other people in the world who could play without reading music, both of whom were located somewhere in my family tree. I did not tell her that, though; it would not have made much of a difference anyway.
She said nothing in return, and sat quietly for a long time. I began to block out her presence as I played, consumed with the sadness that befell me every so often since the gardener had left. I quickly changed the song to let it out, but it was not leaving without dragging tears from my eyes.
“Listen,” she eventually said. As I had been ignoring her, so she had somehow been able to not notice that I was crying. In her defense, though I do not know why I would say that, there were only a few tears running down my cheeks. Nonetheless, she carried on in her self-involved way, “Are you gonna ask me to marry you or not?”
By this time I had dried my face and attempted to act normally. “No,” I plainly answered.
“Why not?” she asked through clenched teeth, the muscles in her neck showing prominently. She honestly seemed angry that I would not marry her, rather than upset, like I thought she might be.
“I'm in love with your cousin,” I said, much to my surprise. None of these events were happening the way I expected they would, actually.
“My cousin?” She looked around, thinking for a moment. “So what? She's already married.”
I lowered my eyelids and questioned her denseness for a moment. “Not that cousin.”
“But I don't have any other cous...” she trailed off mid-word, and looked to her side, her mouth open in pensive shock. When she found her answer, she moved her eyes to mine, and shone through them the most terrible look of disgust I had ever seen. She quickly removed herself from the area, nearly running out of the door. I can not say that I was sad to see her go, but I did feel a little bit odd having earned her disapproval. I wondered if I would ever see her again, and then the wonder turned into hope.
I was all alone again. It was something I was learning to get used to. I was usually alone before, but there was always this thing in the back of my head that reminded myself that Harold could show up at any moment. Not anymore.
So, I laid down to sleep as quickly as I could. I did not intend on actually sleeping, of course, but there was not much else for me to do. I had exhausted my creativity for the day, so playing piano was out, and that was basically the only thing I did around the house. Seconds before I rested my head on the pillow, I pulled out the letter that was stashed underneath it. Many nights deciphering it had taught me that it said:
Thank you for helping me out yesterday. I appreciated it greatly...
......................................................
I think I might come to hear you play sometime soon. Keep a look out, I guess.
Thanks again.
The middle section was covered in scribbled-out words, and after I had uncovered what the actual note read, I had made it my mission to find out what else he had wanted to say. He was incredibly good at making sure no one would be able to see through the thick black lines, though, so I gave up soon after starting. But I still read the letter over and over every night as I laid otherwise unoccupied and unable to sleep, since it was, at the moment, the only thing I had that made me feel like I was still close to him.
-
The shadow just stood there, silently blocking the doorway. At first I was frozen, seemingly glued to the piano bench where I had just been playing, only to be interrupted by the shadow. I was glad to be interrupted, though I was also afraid I was simply imagining it all.
So, I stood up, and made my way over to the shadow to examine its authenticity. As I drew closer, the shadow moved, a face then emerging from the darkness. And I breathed in as much air as I could, which was surprisingly little. It was enough, though, for me to be able to breathe back out, “I didn't think you'd come back.”
“I didn't think you wanted me back,” he quietly said. I moved my hand up and brushed his cheek. It felt too good to be real.
“I didn't even really want you to leave.”
“Really? 'Cause that's what it sounded like when you told me to get out.” There was not much bitterness in his voice, more sadness than anything.
“I'm sorry. Please, don't be mad. You have to understand that-”
“I'm not mad,” he calmly interrupted. “I do understand. You're not mad, either?”
I shook my head. “No, not anymore. I don't have a reason to be mad.”
He looked around for a bit, slowly accepting my apology and searching for something to say. “My cousin told me what you said to her... You seriously love me?” A sort of hope rang through his voice, and I confirmed the answer. He smiled with that same brightness he had before and said, “I think I love you, too.”
I grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, slowly backing up to the piano. We sat down, and I noticed the way he clasped his hands in his lap like he was afraid of being too close to the piano.
“Can you play?” I asked. He looked up, and broke apart his hands to scratch the back of his neck.
“Uh, no,” he replied. “I'm afraid that piano wasn't something my parents wished for me to learn.”
“I could teach you.” He smiled, politely, and the look in his eyes screamed rejection.
“No, no, that's all right. You don't have to go through the trouble of-”
“No, it won't be any trouble,” I insisted. After pushing him away once, I needed to know that there was something connecting us other than a mere piece of paper. No matter how significant that paper actually was, it just was not good enough. “Plus, I feel like I owe you something.”
“You don't owe me anything,” he told me, shaking his head.
“For being such a jerk, yes, I do.” He considered this, accepting it reluctantly after a while.
“But if you repay me by teaching me to play, then I feel like I'll have to do something for you, too,” he said. I thought about it for a bit.
“Well... here's an idea.” I looked into his bright green eyes, which were filled with patience and eagerness, egging me on. “You can always tell me more about yourself. I'd like to know more about you.”
He seemed to like that idea; he smiled and nodded, “I suppose that would work... What would you like to know first?”
“Well, you could start with your name.”
He laughed, and it was purely gorgeous. It was soft, like his voice, but so full of life. And his eyes lit up spectacularly when he laughed. “That is a good place to start. I'm Jonny.” My heart skipped a beat.
“Oh, that's even more beautiful than I thought it would be.” He tilted his head to one side and looked at me like I was crazy. I guess I was a bit crazy.
“Jonny, really?” he inquired. “That's not a very glamorous name.”
“It's better than mine.”
He tilted his head back to its regular position and brightly asked, “Which is?”
“No, it's too embarrassing.”
“Oh, come on.” It was embarrassing, honestly, but it felt wrong not to tell him my name. After all, what sort of lovers do not even know each other's names? Yes, I took the liberty of referring to ourselves as lovers, even then; it is just the way things were.
I brought my hand to my nose and tried to mumble, “Christopher.” I was too loud, it seemed, and he heard me quite loud and clear.
“See, you have a much nicer name than that I do.” His sincerity did nothing to persuade me, and my feelings towards the name remained very much the same, despite his overly convincing tone.
“It's awful,” I said. He shook his head at me and leaned close.
“No, it's not, Christopher.” I turned to see his eyes shining a mere inch away from my own. Once again, it felt too good to be real.
“Well... it's sounds better when you say it. Say it again.”
He smiled, leaned in ever closer, and repeated in a low voice, “Christopher.” I must have gasped audibly, because I remember hearing it and wishing that I had more control over myself.
“Jonny...” Then I leaned in, until there was barely and space left between us and our foreheads were touching. “You can call me Chris if you want. But only you, no one else can.”
“I feel so privileged,” Jonny smiled with a bit of sarcasm. Without waiting for a response, he held onto the back of my neck and kissed me. The sheer wonderfulness of it is far too vast to articulate, but I can remember thinking that my life was finally complete.
Never once did it occur to me that our love was somewhat unconventional. In truth, it never did, and still does not, matter to me one iota. So when we pulled apart, I did not think of anything else except for how nice it was to be with him. How nice it was going to be to be with him for the rest of my life, because that is the length of time I intended us to be together.
“OK, now,” I began, grabbing his hands and forcing them on the piano keys, something which I knew he was always frightened to do. But he was just going to have to deal with that. “Let's play.”
