The Piano

His fingers moved seamlessly, one with the ivory keys, brushing the black brothers gently. His feet worked the pedals as his heart flowed through his limbs. He loved making music on this beautiful piece of art. The black ebony shone in the thousand dazzling lights of the chandelier, brighter than anything else his eyes could see. The tone of this exquisitely crafted instrument resonated with the sounds of his furiously pumping heart. They were one, the man and the Ebony black grand piano.

And then the sky fell upon them.

They were torn apart, why, no one could really tell. He watched with anguish as the other musician touched her keys and drowned himself in her sensual tone. His heart was heavy, his eyes drier than the Red Sea as they made music together, as the songs he had wanted to compose rose from them instead. He lived and relived the feel of the softness of that beautiful ivory surface, on each key. He decided he would never make music with another piano again; it could never feel so right ever again. He lay down in the niche he had carved out for himself, and holding on to the little tag that had come with Ebony, he closed his eyes that he may live in his dreams...

A tinkling woke him. There stood a Walnut piano, lustrous in the dawn rays. A minute spark of interest flew from his fingers. He reached out and struck a chord. The harmonious notes echoed around the room they were enclosed in. He played another, and another, and another. And then he withdrew his hands, for he could feel his heart writhing inside of him. He stepped back, slowly, tiredly.

The Walnut grand piano stood silently, waiting, longing for her notes to be sounded again, to feel the joy of making music. She watched as the man sauntered over again, hesitantly caressing the inky black keys, his fingers working their way over the ivory planes. She basked in the joy of it, carefully forgetting that he might leave again but hoping he would not. She knew he felt he was playing just some piano, not the piano, knew also that his heart was not in the music he was making with her, but hoping nevertheless that he will make music as he once had, fiery and passionate.

But he did leave, his heart still yearning after the Ebony beauty.

The cold, still strings lay in the dark, dust beginning to settle as the Walnut grand desperately hoped he would come back. She watched and prayed.

When he came back, it was nothing like the times gone by. His fingers struck her more powerfully, more passionately. She felt his heart stirring through the tips of his fingers as they grazed the smooth, polished keys that had been crafted onto her. Her strings resounded around the private enclave, the notes beginning to soar as he struck note after note, finding the right pitch that resonated with him and within him.

And sweet, sweet music filled that room forever.