2007-04-30
"Comptine d'Un Autre Ete"
She leads us to the music hall. The three of us are going to try to break into the attic because breaking in is badass, and the music hall attic seems like an alluring goal. The old brick building taunts me with luring streams of melody as I walk home in the dark, back from the library. Tonight it is silent, though, and she is certain in her steps as we quietly follow.
The door's locked, and the sound of the fixed hinged being tugged at echoes throught the stairwell. She shrugs and leads us into a practice room instead, with a padded door and a black steinway.
She sits in front of it and they talk about playing the piano. I listen to the conversation and peer out the window that is cocked open. We are on the top floor, and the moon has been resiliently beaming through the lactescent clouds during the entire evening, shining its silver sliver. The other mentions that her mother tried to get her to play some instrument all through childhood, but that she was never musically inclined.
As a response, she starts playing. I lean against the wall as the other sits in a chair. I watch her play, watch the flickering fingers. I want to make the visual connection of each pressed key to the audio sense of each corresponding note, I want to unify it into one beautiful blend of cause and effect as we watch and listen carefully.
The song rolls on, undulating as her hands stretch across the ivories. It's a French song, with a slower-moving left (bass) hand while the right hand gallops on in the treble clef. I know this song. I glance at the other in that moment, and our eyes meet and smile harmoniously. She knows it too.
leesah-likes at 8:23 p.m.