A Show

She was breathless. Without air, her oxygen, being in this room, at this gig, was poison. Her gentle touch of the keys, cool and stale, brought no sensation. She touched and touched them, caressing the instrument for the sound. The crowd was shrouded in a deep darkness, hiding expensive bodies, competent bodies, important bodies. The shadow cast them aside; meanwhile, a burning blue hue dressed her brown shoulders and stupid silk dress in the color, causing her vision to spin. She tried to sink in the pale light, sleep in the silence of bated breaths. Her lashes fluttered with confusion as she retraced her high-heeled steps from whenever she escaped the soothing safety of her slothing beneath her comforter.

Who brought her here?

When did she bathe?

Where was he?

Her finger must have slipped, because the grand piano began to hum, then quickly swell into a moan. Or, maybe the sound bloomed from her own aching chest. The pain oozed easy and sweet, but it throbbed, and so did her heart.

Where was Collin?

Behind her eyelids, his beautiful face returned, and she finally remembered.

Mind on the instrument, she finished the prelude, flooding the room with a sweltering summer. Her hands traveled along the piano, and her chest joined the movement until she ended on a hopeful note. Except, instead of something lovely, her run finished like it was unfinished. The music became strange. Stiff, burning.

It was exciting.

She pushes the same key, an odd note, and wouldn’t stop, over and over. Colin was like that. How they met was bizarre, and he was a nuisance, too.

Mirroring the bodies that filled the tables and the balcony, she leaned over herself. She was intrigued by him, he poked and prodded something in her she couldn’t shake off, couldn’t protect. He happily stuck onto her like speckled goosebumps.

Finally, the ensemble joined her, and the bodies pressing forwards in the darkness leaned back. She wasn’t sure what they thought they heard, the images they were smelling and tasting, but she was greeted by their applause, anyway.

At that moment, she looked to be enjoying herself, a smile lifting her face as Collin, static images of his wrinkled collar-shirt, his calloused hands, glowing, and his pearly grin, played before her.

There was nothing special about that day, or, maybe nothing about it was interesting except for the chapel itself. It was a carefully crafted space, in its gorgeous windows, splendid arch, and earthy smell. It was a church, but playing the organ was like home. And she always practiced once a week–the universe knew that.

So, Collin was the intrusion on her routine. Joining her abridged, jazz rendition to a hymn by fluttering his trumpet into her masterpiece. She remembered how he appeared into her view, showered in divine light, smelling like pine. Of course she was shocked, and her piece began to falter, but he encouraged her to keep playing. Except, she couldn’t stand his performance. She corrected his key, he obliged. When her tempo switched, he followed. If she consumed him, he let her.

The song became fluttery, but hot. The ends of her thick, coily hair, which fell over her forehead and shoulders, became sticky. Her open back slowly slicked with sweat as the light smoothed slowly over to orange. Collin warmed her blood even outside of their sacred duets. Not everyone appreciated the tumultuous flesh that was separate from the instrument–she knew that too well. She preferred her blank sheets and hours to compose over meaningless lust.

The bodies of everyone on stage seemed to dance to the new movement. The man was fickle, but she would burn for the next night Collin invited her to come to this very jazz bar. Together, they erupted like wildfire as they picked the pieces apart, tested each other in their musical history, and passionately dismissed the something that bloomed between them.

The ensemble pushed the movement to its end and became curious whispers. She noticed how loudly she continued to jam the keys, but she couldn’t silence herself. She was being pulled into another one of the Thursday nights when Collin gave her another one of those calls. She couldn’t stop craving him by then, and she cursed herself for noticing how his loose curls were freshly washed and his cologne was sweet and vanilla as they sat beside each other in a booth. Dimmed by the darkness, she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, and she drank in how delicious that thought was.

She played carefully, but it appeared sloppy. Love didn’t make sense either.

That night, she let him hold her hand. She liked that. He kept critiquing the band so he could whisper into her ear. She really loved that. And everytime she glanced at him, he was already admiring her. She loved that, too.

By midnight, the two were outside on 15th St, giggly and drunk, silly and strange. Like a gentleman, he ushered her to her front door on the fourth floor.

After a long sigh, she struck one last note before dropping her hands to her sides. She was greeted by another round of applause, and was tugged away from Collin and her bed.

The ensemble took the interlude. She rested as the music was a gospel murmur, the instrumentalists dressed under a green aurora. After that night, the two stripped their arrogant facades and combined their geniuses. Aside from love, they made beautiful music. Collin always teased her, asking her why she was so surprised by his work, but it was important for her to never admit just how enamored she was. She was supposed to be the mentor.

Their apartment floors became decorated with sheets on sheets of music. Church was home to him, too, as she learned that his mother was a choir director. When he was small, he loved to sing and fiddle with her old trumpet. Since his voice wasn’t quite musical yet, she invested in his passion for the instrument.

He had been arranging a medley for years now and confided in her for help. It was a piece that grieved a memory of a love she wasn’t sure what of and he never shared.

He must have continued to train his voice, because now, with her, he sounded like a psalm. Sometimes, he would just sing as they sat on the floor, exhausted, with the back of his head on the couch. She cherished every memory he was revisiting in a language she never heard before. Relaxing to his lullaby, she dreamed with him and tried to remember some island … Java, he would plead.

Even after she discovered he would be transferring to a different music program, she offered herself to the completion of his piece. She turned into grief, the loss of her love, and one day Collin arrived at her front door with news.

The call of a horn blared.

Innocent as he was, he didn’t realize she already knew.

The call, now a demand, thrusted its sound. Its urgency pleading for her.

It was the day he completed his medley.

And the same notes she helped Collin realize touched her so deeply now that she jumped, remembering it was the next movement.

Her fingers sank onto the keys, which were now bathed in a reed light, and she began her duet with the trumpet. Graciously, she gave space for the other instrument– unlike the first day they met. The trumpet was heavenly, yet her melody was steeped in illusory. She was overwhelmed by how easy it was to play together, how familiar everything had become. Images of him overwhelmed her, and her fingers struggled to rush the piano with melancholy against the trumpet’s romantic dreaming.

A thought had come to her, and she shot her head up towards the center of the stage. The darkness over the crowd creeped over the man pouring lovely notes through the instrument, and she saw those dark hands masterfully reaching the climax of the medley. His lean body swayed and bent in familiar patterns, offering the people a memorable show.

As the ensemble silenced, and the trumpet roared with dismal, she hiccuped.

Her Collin had left weeks ago.

The entire room awaited her lead, but she sat there, frozen. Her vision was blurred by tears, and her cheek became wet with the trail of them, plopping onto her hand.

The drops pained her like pricks, and her fingers jumped back onto the keys. She messed the instrument like a machine, and the ensemble joined as the trumpet slowly played its final notes.

Even before the ensemble was finished, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

She grinned; the performance was over.

Collin hadn’t planned to watch her set, but it was televised and he couldn’t help himself–she was a genius after all. He watched about the last half hunched over himself, eyes and ears glued to the screen.

He was unable to gripe about anything, not to mention she looked gorgeous and played with the same vigor and style he remembered. No one could compare to her, which was why he never tried. He was so mesmerized by her that he allowed his life's work to be included in her set. The trumpet player was the only real complaint he had. If anyone should be playing that medley, it was him.

He was so focused on his sudden frustration that he was surprised to see the entire ensemble fall silent. The camera focused onto her face as her breath staggered, sweat glistening across her face. He watched as a tear fell perfectly along her right cheek.

Collin howled, jumping from his seat in disbelief. He stood, still staring at the television, only focusing on the camera slowly panning away to capture the ensemble returning for the end. He was waiting.

Then he saw it.

That grin she couldn’t hide when she had outdone herself.

He fell back into his seat, defeated.

Sienna was always an excellent performer.