Nobody could play like her.
Her fingers raced over the ivory keys with enough precision and delicacy to make a brain surgeon jealous. The raw emotion - and the romance she shared with that baby grand - washed over us few onlookers like a wave of ethereal ecstasy.
The music she shared with us in that dingy little venue painted the fading walls with new life. The washed out curtains burned vermillion once again, the flickering lights shone bright and warm on the old wooden stage.
There was almost something provocative about the way she played. Her hair and shoulders swayed to the rhythm of the music, as her fingertips danced on the keys... black and white / a flurry of intricate movements.
We stood with mouths agape, our hearts beating in our throats, wine glasses forgotten in our hands.
For years, those rushing melodies haunted me. Sleep, when it came, was filled with dreams of that night.
End
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