A Month Later
The sound of silence.
It is my favorite. And within a dark room? Immaculate. A dark and silent room is my preferred environment. It is all I must picture to reach a certain level of concentration. If I can image an environment like that and block everything else out… I am sure there is nothing I cannot accomplish.
My fingers dance across the velvet keys. My heart swelled as I leaned forward, lips kissing the vibrating waves of sound floating indiscernibly through the air. My brow creased painfully, sweat gently sloping down the bridge of my nose. My lungs burned from lack of oxygen; throat willing to burst of copious amounts that I dare not to release. Yet, I continue to hold my breath.
It is fine.
For the tune pulls you in and throws you out. Teasing your heart and yanking upon your strings. It plays you as it maintains to be played itself. It keeps you entranced. Mesmerized and hypnotized by its beauty and its empathy of your world all the while toying with you. It knows what you want but it makes you beg as it provokes you with only a sliver of taste on the tip of your tongue.
You want more.
The percussion, it climbs. Building and climbing, tying knots inside your chest with the ache of yearning. Oh, it climbs… It builds and climbs. That ache grows, weighing pressure down in your chest, brings you to your knees.
Building. Climbing. We are almost there… And then…
Climax!
Suddenly, the image of me riding on D flashed behind my closed eyelids. I gasped as I began to remember the fragment of my memory from that night.
My arms were wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders, pressing our chests together. My cheek pressed against the side of his face; beard scratching against my sweaty skin. I grinded downward on his hard shaft as he thrusted upward into my grotto. I remembered throwing my head back in the throes of our hot entrapment as he bit down on the junction between my neck and shoulder. He had sucked hard and lapped at the salt of my sweat, whispering how divine I tasted. He would drag his tongue and his teeth down my jugular and suck on my breasts.
Coming back to reality, I blinked rapidly and cleared my throat. I realized that I left a halt in the music I was playing. Deciding to play it off as a suspenseful pause, I continued closing my eyes back.
My fingers slowed as my face softened. I release my breath and the air flows freely. My chest pounds to the rhythm of my chaotic breathing due to the shocking blast of my past.
Relax.
We are drifting down now. Softly and slowly. It feels nice. Calm.
"That was remarkable!"
Flinching, my eyes shot open. For the time being, I forgot where I was. I was not in a dark silent room at all. Looking around at the clapping people, their faces all unfamiliar and in awe. The building is all bright and white.
Not at all a silent and dark room. I was in the piano gallery.
Plastering a polite smile onto my face, I stood and gave the smallest of bows.
"Aurelia" sighed the manager of the gallery as she clapped. "As usual, your show was phenomenal."
"I wouldn't call it a show, but thank you," I laughed out as everyone dispersed.
"Are you sure I cannot hire you, darling? I swear, ever since you waltzed into my building looking for a used piano, my sales have tripled! I can start selling those piano lessons I keep talking of wanting if you teach here for me. You will get an hourly wage plus commission for every person that asks for you. And as a bonus, you can play every single day."
I looked at her and gave a weak laugh. Raising my hand to the back of my head, I cleared my throat.
As if.
Mrs. Davis has been offering me a job for a while now. There are times – challenging times – where I would feel tempted to take her up on her offer but then I remind myself of the reasons I deny her.
To simply put it, Mrs. Davis is a bitch.
She is an off-brand version of Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada with large silly glasses, a gigantic mole on the left side of her chin and gap so large in her teeth, she would hardly need a whistle to be a gym couch.
Now, usually I would not be the type to judge a person merely off their looks, but sometimes it is rather easy to notice the ugly on the outside when a person is downright disgusting on the inside.
Do not get me wrong, Mrs. Davis is kind to me, but that is only due to our codependent relationship. Whereas I get to come into her gallery and play on any piano I choose whenever I want to, she gets to make money off the people who walk in to see me play. She hangs fliers with my name on them with the days and times I usually show up. She also has a tip jar at the register that is supposedly for me. She thinks I do not know, but I see her hide it when she believes I may see.
When I first walked into the gallery, I was in search of a piano. I play to relieve stress and aid to get me through tough times. Considering the area in which the gallery is located, I was not part of the status quo in customers she usually receives. Due to my faded jeans and scuffed sneakers, she knew right off the bat I could not afford her prices. And she was correct, but that does not give her the right to be rude about it.
I told her I was in search of a used piano. She said with my budget I was better off with a keyboard at a resale store. I told her I prefer the clarity and purity of an actual piano; she told me that I would not know how to properly utilize an instrument of such caliber.
Of course, I told her that was not true, so she asked me to prove it. With the irritation I gained from our conversation, it is clear to say that I had enough fuel to blow her mind. Immediately, people began to ask if I taught piano. They would say they wanted to purchase the same brand that I used because they never heard any piano sound as incredible as the one, I played.
I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes.
From that point on she made it a habit to pester me about working for her. All her customers say that if she could get me on her team as a teacher, they would pay top dollar. But the amount she offers me is nothing of the sort.
"You sell me this pitch every time I come, Mrs. Davis," I said packing my things. "I would love to take you up on the offer but, unfortunately, I am not much of a teacher. I play strictly to relieve stress, nothing more."
"Well," she began, obviously annoyed that I denied her yet again, "in that case, I'm glad I wasn't able to sell you that piano." She gave a small pout as she folded her arms and swayed back and forth.
"Yeah," I said. "Sorry, Mrs. Davis."
"Do not mind me, dear. I am only teasing. Now, you better be careful on your way to work, you hear me?"
"Yes ma'am," I said as I hurried out of the gallery and onto the street.