The Pianist

His fingers rested on the keys. He inhaled a shaky breath.

He had finished practicing for the day. Four hours straight, every day except Monday.

For a moment, the thought of why his fingers weren't bleeding crossed his mind. But he quickly rationalized, piano keys had no way to damage. At least, not yet, He thought dully. One of his greatest fears was growing old and getting arthritis.

The young man had a difficult relationship with the piano. Most everyone who heard him play enjoyed it. Most everyone said he was talented. But it did not seem that way to him.

He did not have idols like immortal Beethoven, or modern sensations like Einaudi. Rather, he wished to harness the soul of the piano. To meet it, to embrace it, as they had done.

The piano, he was sure, was the most perfect thing ever built. Everything about it, he could adore. The strings and hammers—mechanisms, so intricate, to produce something so gripping. The slender legs like that of a beautiful woman's.

But oh, how his pretentious mind would thwart that, being that it was literally a battlefield between hope and despair, regarding his talent.

His skin was not pale enough to match ivory, his hair was not dark enough to match ebony.

He did not feel perfect enough to use the piano.

His thoughts slowed to a pause, and he was briefly startled to hear the thumping of his heart, rocking in his ears. He shut his eyes and sighed. Again, he rationalized—he was merely exhausted, his heart wasn't reflecting his fears. Or was it? He couldn't fathom trying to tell the difference.

The piano he often graced with his presence was a grand. Smooth, black curves and rounded edges. The lid tipped elegantly upwards, revealing the strings. Steel, they were, and twinkled like metal is wont to do.

For a moment, he wondered if this piano was the difficult one, and not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," He breathed suddenly, realizing he had insulted something most precious. "I know it's me."

Speaking out loud, he was reminded of yesterday. A Wednesday, when a girl listened to him practice.

He wasn't even sure of her age, and barely paid attention to what she looked like. What he did remember, was her drooping, scoop-neck sweater, pleated skirt, and her words.

She was not even a pianist, let alone a musician. And yet…he thought of her as a musician, with a different medium. Somehow, she was able to create music with words. A writer, she called herself.

The pianist did recognize they were kindred souls, both struggling to master their art of creation.

He had told her of his fears; for some reason it was easy to open up to her. She shook her head and smiled slightly, seated on a chair pulled near his own bench.

"Your hair is wonderful. Curly, cut just the right length and not orange enough to be a carrot, not red enough to be an apple or anything but yours. It doesn't need to match the sharps."

At the time he doubted her words immensely, but tried to nod along to what she was saying.

"And I'm afraid if your skin were as white as these flats are ivory, well, you might be a zombie."

A look had crossed her face there; she worried if her humor was uncouth.

He still smiled at the comparison.

"There are so many things one can say about the word, perfect. I'm not going to say any of those. What I will say, is that you have passion. Would you agree, that, relationships need some of this to function?"

"Yes, I would,"

"And then, relationships also need care."

He nodded his head, this time with agreement and understanding.

"Further, they need hard work."

She paused, staring right at him. He remembered her dark brown eyes and their intensity.

"You have each and every one of those. You simply cannot fail at this. The only way to go is up, my friend. You will meet the soul of the piano, of this I am sure. I dare you to try and prove me wrong."

He blinked, and was jolted back to the current set-up of the room. Night and snow shown through the window, illuminated by the moon. That was all he needed this winter.

The writer was no longer there, he turned to see her chair back in its place, just to make sure she wasn't whispering in his ear.

No, rather, it was her memory. He sat there, wrapped in quiet contemplation for some time and somehow, a smile had fell on his lips.

He lifted his hand to his face, realizing this was the case. His smile only grew. Flexing his fingers, he also realized he had done what the writer had revealed; she spoke to anything, inanimate or otherwise.

He decided he would try doing such more often, starting with the beloved piano.

"Well, my dear, let's have a nice conversation, hm?"

And fingers met keys in a loving embrace.

He had just met the soul of the piano. It was there all along, simply waiting for him.