pounds into the room through the enormous windows facing the piano.
He sits completely engrossed in his keyed vibrations,
looking but not seeing. He is dressed in shades of brown, hair falling
around his shoulders, eyes moist yet inexpressive. His head is lowered
with the effort of communion.
Within the room, the music absorbs and reflects in
a loud, lilting cascade.
Then a woman enters in a brisk dance. She is dressed
in blue, with hair tight above her glistening brow. She whips and
spins around the piano, keeping her eyes upon him as he pours himself
into and out from the strings and hammers. She matches his tempo,
anticipates his changes, mirrors his highs and lows. Something in
her manner suggests that she wants him to stop playing and yet she
The music seems to form itself to her dance, to energize
her and lend a glow to her body. Notes seem to carry her along as
she washes the floor with her feet, the air rushing from her limbs.
As the sun reaches the ground, she is faltering, legs
red from exertion as her chest heaves with passionate pain.
What color are your eyes, she whispers, what color
are your eyes?
Her pace is frenzied in step with the music, hands
above her, now behind. She spins with her dress flung about her
body, spraying sweat upon the keys, upon the windows. She is communicating,
asking and telling.
Then she falls with a gasp and, in that instant, the
music stops, the cover is slammed down over the keys causing a blend
of struck keys into a muddy chord and the bench is toppled over.
He rises and strides out without a backward glance.
From the floor, she raises her voice to him, "Why don't you
He stops at the entrance. Without turning he whispers,
"Why can't you hear me?"
Then he continues on his way as the chaos of sound
dies in the piano.