The Old Man and the Pianist

The old man sat down in front of the standing piano that was placed against the wall. He put the tennis derby at his left foot on one of the shining brass pedals and spread his fingers across the black and white keys. He closed his eyes and touched the chords of the imaginary composition that he was playing, rolling his fingers along the keys, lifting his bowed hand up in a slow, dramatic gesture as if pulled away by the force of his emotions, and flipping his hand while lowering his arm again, lay his fingers on the keyboard again to play the next chord, while the fingers of his left hand were dancing in a repetitive walk back and forth the same circle of bass keys. The old man had his eyes closed and nodded his head up and down on the pace of the notes. But no sound was heard, no tones were played, the room was filled with a melancholic silence. When the old man opened his eyes again, he saw a tall youthful figure with dark, short hair, the bony, lengthy fingers press the keys down with a deliberate, controlled force of a delicate touch, that revealed both the force and sensibility of his character. The shadowed lines of the swollen veins, the sinews of his fingers' muscles dancing on his toned, Mediterranean skin. The long neck was procrastinated, hovering above the hands, the eye white emphasizing the dark eyes that fixated on the fingers, and with irregular jerks the head shifted position. The tunes of the English suite filled the room, the soft and loud intonations alternating, plucking the strings of the old man. There had been a time that the old man would have shed a tear hearing such a delightful piece. The old man sighed with the pleasure of an old memory. He did in fact not even know the name of the young man playing the piano. The dark youth turned his head and smiled with a tender stare of approval.