The Silent Pianist

The pianist in the corner plays on. I have been his only companion for two hours now, but still his fingers keep up their constant movement, beating out one beautiful piece after another. Does he know I am still here? Does he realise everyone else has left?
            At first they applauded, but slowly they tired and then they departed. For me though there is something irresistible about his music, I must stay to listen. He is playing out his life, his heart, his soul; but all I know is that he is a pianist, and I love him.
            I have come every day for a week, and stayed every night until the early hours of the morning. Always though he outlasts me. My eyes droop and when I wake he is gone. I cannot bring myself to stop his playing, and if I did, I do not think I would have the words to say to him. He too, would remain silent, the piano is his voice, but that is not to say he does not have any words to say. I know this because last night he left me a note.

You are very beautiful.

Tonight I have a note ready for him. I couldn’t think of a reply that summed up my feelings for him and his music. So instead I have simply put, ‘Thank you.’ It’s a beginning.