The Piano

The Piano

When Andrea C is alone she approaches the piano like a lover, teasingly at the beginning. She straddles its bench and lays her delicate hands across the keys. Her fingers caress the contours of the ivories, feeling their cool polished sheen. She runs her hand lightly across two octaves. She doesn’t press hard enough to produce a tone, but the soft growl of the keys springing back to position is satisfying nonetheless. At the pit of her stomach is the beginning of something good.

The child of professional musicians, she was taught piano from a very early age. But to her the lessons felt cheap and perfunctory, and she resisted them. She rebelled against the rigidity with which her musical education was prosecuted, and she quit when she was eighteen. But she did love the piano. She loved the sounds it produced, and the way it made her feel when she played. It was only the tedium of rehearsals and recitals she couldn’t stand. So, in private, she continues to play.

The first notes are plaintive, a tentative call to a mysterious lover. Her fingers dance gracefully, striking gorgeous tones that evoke love and longing. She feels her confidence build, and her hands move with speed and skill. The bass notes resonate through the floor, the bench, and into her body. A flush comes over her face and chest and she plays harder—thrashing at the keys with fire and passion.
The song she plays is one of her own devising, wrought from the heavy emotions in her heart. It is at once beautiful and disturbing.

A pressure builds from her stomach and lower back. It grows upward and outward, and her forehead glows with dewy perspiration. The sounds emanating from the piano can be heard throughout the house, and culminate with a dramatic crescendo. She freezes, shudders, and exhales. Her hands are at rest, the piano silent.

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