Beyond Words

"My mum used to play this," said the man tenderly.

I was so engrossed in my piece that I played D minor instead of E minor, a mistake Chopin could never forgive. I don't think the man noticed, but I'm sure he saw my red cheeks flaming in all their glory.

I thought it was rather rude of him to talk while I was playing, like seriously, everyone else at the party would wait until the end before giving compliments or stating unnecessary fact. He stood there, just behind me to the left, until I'd finished. I began to wish he'd say something else - his silent attention to my piano playing felt ruder than conversation, or at least more awkward.

I finally turned to look at him, and I'm glad I waited until the end, I might've forgotten where to find middle C. He looked my age, in his 20s, dark hair, medium height, handsome features. His expression remained neutral, almost too neutral, as he told me that I played the end wrong. Before I could stutter he pointed to the sheet music.

"Fourth bar from the end; the F# minor arpeggio is played with the fourth finger, not the third. Makes it easier to transition to the E".

I scanned his face for arrogance, but it was hard to focus - his dazzlingly cliché eyes got in the way - but were those tears? The ones that cloud your vision without falling?

"Like this?" I asked, correcting my fingering.

"Nearly" he said. "I'll show you, if you don't mind that is"

He leaned over me in the way the piano teachers do. You'd always subtly lean the opposite way, enough to avoid contact, but not enough to offend. He was no exception I thought, now leaning 1.3 cm to the right of him.

His technique was effortless, his hand danced across the keys and barely seemed to touch them.

"...see how it's more efficient?"

I snapped back into it.

"Oh, I get it now, thanks".

"No problem. I'm Nate, you?" he asked, offering a hand.

"Juliet" I replied, standing up. His grip was firm, the polite kind.

"That's funny" he said, his still-wet eyes flashing. "My mother's name was Juliet".

"Oh wow, and didn't you say she used to play the Nocturne?"

"Yes, it was her favourite piece" he said, "and I've never met someone else who can play it".

"Really? I kept stuffing up the chords though".

He chuckled, but I saw deeper into his compliment.

"I'm sure your mum was better than me," I ventured.

Now he just smiled, nodding...biting his lip.

"Yeah...she taught me"

I now understood the tension across his face. I was sure of it, his mother had died. The grief was was dripping of his every word.

"How recently?" I asked softly.

"Two weeks" he replied with a painful grimace.

Raw. So raw.

I was going to whisper an apology or something else sensible, but I refrained. 'I'm sorry' had lost any significance in the modern world. My solution was to draw him back to the piano.

"Will you play me something?" I asked quietly, gesturing to the Grand Upright.

It was my turn to stand and watch. I didn't interrupt him. Words were foreign intruders to the musical domain.

He played with the beauty which can only be experienced.

His long-prevented tears broke through the flood gate. They splashed onto the keys, refracting the light into impossible black and white rays.

Who'd have thought this supposedly rude and condescending man could tug at my heart, without uttering one single word.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.ㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤ. ㅤ.